Final Fantasy VII: Memento Mori
by ConKipcha
Summary: Even before Jenova arrived, the planet was full of tension. The xenophobic city of Hume seeks the destruction of the Cetra, a destruction that Jenova is all too willing to assist. Only history’s forgotten heroes can prevent the end of all they hold dear.
1. The Story Begins

The Story Begins

_It was chance that the asteroid moving slowly and gradually through space entered a solar system that contained life. Chance that it struck a smaller asteroid and had its course altered just enough to veer unchangeably towards the only planet with a sentient species. Chance, not fate as the people of the planet would later proclaim, that the asteroid would forever change the lives of those who lived there. For of all the asteroids drifting through the vast emptiness of space, this one contained a lifeforce of its own. As it realized where it was headed, the being inside the asteroid stirred to consciousness. Soon._

The dew was still coating the grass when Tyrael's eyelids cracked open. He inhaled as deep a breath as he could, held it, then released it in a rush as he sat up. Every day, for as long as he could remember, he'd woken up the same way. With a groaning stretch he rapped his knuckles on an empty pot, and as he scrubbed his scalp with his fingers the dew on the grass began to glisten. Slowly, like a whirlpool beginning to form, the dew lifted from the grass and gathered in the pot, swirling inside until the pot was full. A final stretch was accompanied by the pop of his spine, before he picked up the pot and dumped the water over his head. He shook the extra water from his hair, running his fingers through his copper locks before setting the pot down and reaching for his clothes.

He'd camped on the grassy steppes between the Great River and the Great Mountain Pass. As he packed up his camp he smirked at the similar names. If there was one thing humans had going for them, it was that they were definitely more creative with their naming of locations. The only problem was that naming landmarks wasn't enough for them any more; now they wanted to create landmarks of their own.

"A capital city," Tyrael muttered, strapping his saddle into place on his chocobo and feeding it a green-green. "Have they learned nothing? Capital cities don't work."

His chocobo gave a light-hearted "wark!" that turned into a grunt as Tyrael fastened on the two heavy postmen's packs and mounted up. Despite his scepticism about a capital city, Tyrael was carrying letters and packages from across the world to exactly that spot. Human cities were springing up like weeds, but to strap them all together under the rule of a main city…

"It won't work," he stated again.

He gave his chocobo a nudge, but the bird didn't move. It turned its expectant eyes on him, and swallowing a curse he rummaged in his pack and pulled out their matching post caps. The chocobo had spent its whole life running the mail delivery routes, could probably do it blindfolded, but it refused to budge until it was appropriately attired.

Finally they left the campsite, and as they rode away Tyrael looked back. He'd used the same campsite the past four times in a row, and he could feel the lifestream urging him not to use it again. No one else used it, it was becoming _his_ place, and Cetra weren't allowed to own places. That was the key difference between humans and Cetra.

As they raced across the steppes, Tyrael felt his pessimistic thoughts evaporating as the lifestream rose up to greet him. Yes, he was travelling an established route, but in his case the lifestream was willing to bend the rules. Within the Cetra were several distinct clans, separated by travel areas and further subdivided by colour. Tyrael was one of the WhiteHill clan; specifically, he was the _last_ of the WhiteHills. As the only WhiteHill remaining, Tyrael's pushing of Cetra boundaries was treated with more leniency.

Around noon, Tyrael spotted the human capital city. It had grown massively since last he'd seen it, but even its new bulk failed to convince him that it would last. Named Hume after the man who'd envisioned its completion, the city was thriving with a young and enthusiastic population. Men and women worked tirelessly to build it into the greatest city on the planet, but underneath the initial atmosphere of diligent ambition lurked an ambition of another kind. The inhabitants of Hume were all strictly humans, and even then the number of humans from Wutai could be counted on one hand. It was true that Cetra were nomadic, but their entry into the city was discouraged and even denied.

Tyrael approached the city gates, readying his traveller's papers with guilt. He was registered as a human, and was required by social norms to complain good-naturedly about his job and the need to travel every time he entered town; especially in Hume. The people here seemed urgent to declare that they were sedentary, to differentiate themselves from the Cetra as much as possible.

The guard at the gate glared at him, clearly suspicious of his black chocobo, but Tyrael met his eyes and held them, "I run the mountain-river route. Is there a problem?"

"Nice route?"

"If you like rocks in your boots and thorns up your ass," he quipped.

The guard barked a laugh and handed back the papers, "Go ahead. You'll probably be sent out again today."

"Not even a night in a bed?"

"Dispatches," was all the guard said before turning to scrutinize the next traveller.

Tyrael rode into the city with thoughts whirling. If the city was going to war, it had three possible targets. First, it could attack Wutai, the Western Continent with a culture five hundred years older than Hume's, but that was unlikely. Only fifteen years ago Wutai had clashed with the rest of the humans over trade and immigration disputes. It had escalated into a three-year war, with the eventual surrender of Wutai. Despite losing the war, they got their way with regards to immigration, and the population of the continent stayed almost exclusively Wutaian.

Second, it could lash out at the growing city of Zolema, the golden city nestled against the mountains on the Eastern Continent and Hume's greatest rival. Both Hume and Zolema had fought in the Wutaian war, and on the same side, but the smaller population of Zolema was mostly artillery and had lost far fewer soldiers. To the residents of Hume this was seen as unfair and cowardly; it didn't seem to matter that the Zolemans had added a decisive edge to the war. To attack Zolema was also unlikely, as the Zolemans wouldn't sail to the Central Continent; they would wait, secure in their mountain defences, and rain projectiles down on attackers.

This left the third option, and it had Tyrael subconsciously brushing his fingers against his traveller's papers; the people of Hume could be planning a war against the Cetra. It seemed absurd, as the Cetra were nomadic and hardly prone to confrontation, but that same racial trait would make for an easier opponent than the other two.

The possibility of a war against his kin kept Tyrael's thoughts occupied all the way to the post office. On seeing the building, he allowed himself an appreciative smile; alright, so the humans had _two_ good things about them. The Cetra had passed their news verbally, but then along came humans who decided they'd rather let their letters do the travelling, and now everyone used the postal service. He could just imagine the outrage in Hume if they ever found out that the Cetra used the mailing system as much as, if not more than, they did.

He tied his chocobo to the hitching post and stepped inside the building. The post office had once shared a building with the library, but the books had since been moved to the Central Hall further toward the interior and the shelves were beginning to fill with packages and letters. The shelf for the mountain-river route was empty, making Tyrael think that he would get a day off, but then he saw the Hume-desert route shelf and sighed; it was packed.

"Ty-boy!" A meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder, leading him to wonder for the twentieth time why the post manager needed to be so burly, "I think Jaymond's dead, either that or he's buggered off, haven't seen him in three weeks. Cetra probably shot him, need you to take his route. Temporary, of course, there's a good man."

"You think the Cetra _shot_ him?" Tyrael couldn't keep the bemused tone from his voice, "It's more likely he quit and just didn't tell you."

His boss spun him around to face him, his voice suddenly low, "What, you don't think the Cetra'd do it? Think all they want is peace?"

"I'm just saying why waste the arrow?" Tyrael shrugged, "Jay's a meatbag, Zalbez."

Zalbez conceded this point, then clapped Tyrael's shoulder again, "Hume-desert route, quick as you like, I'll buy you lunch if you go today. Easy route, no mountains or rivers, two pack chokeys'll do it fine."

Tyrael frowned, "Those pack chokeys are the foulest birds on the planet; I'd rather make three trips."

"No can do, it all needs to go now. Stuff's been here for two and a half weeks." Zalbez pulled Tyrael out the door and down two buildings to the tavern, appropriately named the Pack Chokey Pub. The cute mail-carrying chocobo displayed on the shackle looked nothing like the actual bird. Dirty, unkempt, and usually missing an eye from scraps with others, pack chocobos liked to deliver their parcels intact and their mailmen in pieces.

"Maybe Jaymond's chokey ate him," Tyrael suggested slyly, still hoping to weasel out of using the vicious birds.

"Then it's a good thing you have better animal skills."

Damn.

"Right!" Zalbez slammed his palms on the bar, "A postman's lunch for my favourite postman, and step on it!"

Tyrael noticed several other postmen in the pub, but they just smiled and rolled their eyes; one even looked at Tyrael with pity. You didn't have to work for Zalbez very long to figure out you were only his favourite when he wanted something from you.

Zalbez stayed long enough to pay for the meal and sneak the dessert, and then loudly announced that he was heading back to finalize afternoon deliveries. Taking their cue, most of the other postmen left as well. Not knowing those who remained, Tyrael took his lunch and sat by the window. He could hear the lifestream's gentle reprimand, but ignored it. Soon he'd be travelling a new route, which would make it pleased with him again.

The Pack Chokey was hardly the most boisterous pub in the city, with most of its patrons being postal workers back from a trek and exhausted, so when a loud and raucous group entered it all heads turned to see the newcomers. Tyrael's eyes raced back to the window as quickly as they could, but it wasn't fast enough to stay anonymous.

"Whitehall, you roaming vagabond," the tone was friendly despite the words, "I haven't seen you in weeks!"

"You've been busy, I suppose," Tyrael gave a half-smile at the human surname. Minor changes to their clan titles allowed Cetra to walk in Hume with none the wiser.

The large frame of Osrik Asakura dropped down onto the bench beside him with a bang, and Tyrael frowned. He really wasn't a small man, and was capable of matching sword or fist against anyone in Hume; he was just meeting up with all the city's titans in one day. Osrik stood a good half-foot taller than he did and was built like a musk ox; a blue-eyed, fair-haired musk ox. Asakura most definitely wasn't his last name from birth, but when Osrik's wife sat down across from him it was easy to see where he'd picked it up.

Lotsu Asakura was without question from a noble family of Wutai. It was in how she carried herself, how she spoke, and how she fought. Tyrael had no idea why she'd left that life behind to become a mercenary with her husband, but she had. Husband and wife carried their weapons strapped to their backs, a hammer and two-handed shurikan, respectively, and from the way their companions were ordering drinks it was clear they'd just received pay for a mission.

Lotsu smiled at him, "Have you noticed an increase in letters?"

"Yes, but my route's just been changed so I'm not an accurate judge." Tyrael always felt his guard lowering when he talked with Lotsu, so he ended up putting too much energy into hiking it back up and overcompensated, coming off sounding stiff. Thankfully, Lotsu had realized this long ago.

"You shouldn't be a postman!" Osrik exclaimed, "My god, what a tremendous waste of talent! You could outmatch any of the other mercenaries, maybe even me! Let someone else deliver the mail!"

Tyrael let him finish before crossing his arms and asking, "How many times did you practise that on the way here?"

"Five." Osrik didn't look embarrassed at all, "Did it work?"

"Not really."

Tyrael would have responded further, but a sudden commotion in the street interrupted and they peered out the window to see. A crowd was forming around a city guard patrol, but the window was raised above the street and they could see over the thrashing arms. The guards, all mounted on armoured chocobos, were dragging four women down the road towards the city center. The women's hands were bound, and they were staring at the hostile crowd with horror. Their feet were bare, and they were only wearing their shifts. This was a spectacle, and more than that; a warning. All four women had a "C" burned into their right shoulders, clearly marking them as Cetra. One of the women tripped and fell to the ground, but the guards continued to drag her carelessly.

As the crowd jeered and cast about for things to throw, Tyrael's hand closed over the hilt of his sword and he rose to his feet. The next second Osrik had pulled him back down. He struck out at the larger man and attempted to stand again, but once again Osrik forced him to retake his seat.

"It's barbaric!" Tyrael spat.

"It's Hume." Osrik's voice was quiet, trying to both sympathize and remain inconspicuous, "Things have changed since you were last here, Tyrael. Any Cetra in the area should know better than to come near."

"This city is sitting in the way of the only route to the Northern Continent," Tyrael seethed, "if they want to continue on their yearly migration, they don't have a choice. There's a reason it's called the Great Mountain Pass."

Osrik passed a frustrated hand over his face, then pinched his lips together and rubbed his chin. Eventually he took a deep breath and stood, "You should probably get going. I hear the post master is a slave driver."

Tyrael was finally allowed to rise, but as he was moving past Osrik the big man clamped a hand around his upper arm and leaned close to his ear, "Don't be an idiot, Tyrael. Get your mail and leave, and if you see any Cetra warn them off the Pass. I'll see if anything can be done for those women."

"I can…"

"You can do nothing for them." Osrik clapped a hand on his back, giving the appearance of a friend bidding farewell, "I might be able to. Go."

*

Tyrael exited the pub with the intent to pursue the crowd, but Zalbez was standing outside the post office with the reins to a pack chokey in each hand, and the birds were already loaded. Zalbez called to him immediately, and there was nothing Tyrael could do but walk over and take the reins. To say that he and his own chocobo were unhappy with travelling with the two extras was a vast understatement; his chocobo would have to watch itself if it wanted to keep all of its feathers.

"Straight down, straight back," Zalbez instructed firmly, "post office'll probably be swarmed while you're gone, and we're short-staffed as is."

"Straight down and back," Tyrael agreed. He mounted up after stringing the reins of the pack chocobos onto a guide line, but before going on his way he asked, "Why swarmed? The spring rush is over and it's still a few weeks until summer."

"I have my suspicions," Zalbez shrugged in an extremely unconvincing manner. "Rather safe than sorry, right?"

Tyrael gave a noncommittal shrug back before tapping his chocobo on the sides and riding off down the street. Zalbez was horrible at concealing the fact he was lying, but was actually quite good at keeping the secret he knew.

Once he was safely out of Hume and cresting one of the hills a mile distant, Tyrael looked back at the city with a lot less fondness than he had the past five years he'd been stationed there. It sat squarely in the way of the Mountain Pass, and Tyrael looked at the groundwork for the outer wall in disbelief. Already the wall was half-built, and it was made of stone. What was worse, once it was finished it would fit snugly with the Pass, meaning the only way through would be through Hume. The journey through the Pass took roughly a week, and for the Cetra, emerging at the other end was the greatest relief they could get. Now they would spend a week clambering over rock only to be confronted with a wall of it.

Tyrael's chocobo hopped, letting him know that they had mail to deliver, and he steered it down their new route. For the time being the pack chocobos were behaving, probably figuring out how to untie their reins from the guide line, and he didn't want to antagonize them by standing around thinking about what might or might not happen.

As he travelled he felt the lifestream pulsing from the earth, and sighed, thinking that it was disappointed at him for failing to act and save those women. It was probably best that he thought this; if he knew why the planet was actually upset, he most likely would have given up his Cetra status right then and there.


	2. The Cetra Connection

The Cetra Connection

It took Tyrael a week and a half to run the route from Hume to the edge of the Great Desert, but once there he had to wait for the contact postman to arrive. Thankfully a small house had been built, probably by whoever ran the Desert route, and since the door was unlocked Tyrael invited himself in. His chocobo and the two pack chocobos waited outside.

The house was basic, with only one storey and three rooms including the bathroom. A thin layer of dust was beginning to settle on the table and counters, but he couldn't use it to determine how long the house had been unoccupied. The dust could simple be desert sand blown in from when the occupant last opened the door.

He moved to the only other room in the house besides the bathroom, and pushed lightly on the door. It was ajar, and swung open noiselessly. He was expecting a simple bedroom, but was pleasantly surprised. A double bed was present, but was shoved into the back corner. All of the shelving and dressers were similarly pushed away from the center of the room, making room for a flowerbed roughly as far across as he was tall. The flowers ranged widely in variety and colour, but they were all slightly wilted. This was a far greater indication of how long ago the owner had been home.

"Cetra," Tyrael mused. It would certainly make sense why all the doors were unlocked, and why the furnishings were so basic. Even though a Cetra had built it, the house couldn't belong to them unless they wanted to risk the loss of Cetra status.

He turned to untack his chocobo, but then hesitated, his eyes still on the flowers. Trying not to think of how long it had been since he last raised the lifestream, Tyrael knelt on the floor at the garden's edge and buried his fingers in the soil. He fought to keep his eyes open, but as always they drifted closed as soon as the lifestream brushed his fingers. He made several clumsy attempts at reviving the flowers, and was on the point of giving up when he felt another pair of hands slide down over his and bring more of the lifestream towards the surface. His hands grew warm, and eventually the touch of the lifestream faded.

He opened his eyes and smiled; the flowers were blooming brilliantly. Then his gaze drifted down to the hands over his, and back up to the person's face. She was a few years younger than him, probably not much more than twenty, and while she'd kept the front of her bright orange hair smooth, the back half had turned on itself and twisted into dreadlocks that stretched to her lower back. Her light green eyes were sparkling at him, and only when the fuzziness of working with another Cetra faded from his mind did he reclaim the use of his voice. Unfortunately, it wasn't to say anything remarkably intelligent.

"Hello."

"You're new." She leaned close to his face and studied his eyes, "Cetra make better postmen anyway."

"I won't disagree with you there." Tyrael leaned away from her inquisitive face and stood, indicating the flowerbed, "How did you do that?"

She stood as well, puzzled, "Do what?"

"How did you call so much of the lifestream to the surface? I can only get a small amount each time."

"Oh, I can call as much as I want," her serious tone contained not a hint of bragging, "I just can't control it all that well."

There was an awkward pause before Tyrael started and held out his hand, "Tyrael WhiteHill."

"Rufina Cid." She shook his hand firmly before asking, "WhiteHill? I thought your clan settled a few years ago?"

"They did; I refused to join them. Your last name is Cid?" Tyrael tried his best to steer the conversation topic off of himself. His clan's en masse rejection of the Cetra way of life was both tragic and shameful amongst many other Cetra clans; more so because they still insisted on carrying the clan name.

"Cid, after my father," she announced with pride. "I'm half-human. I grew up with my mother's clan, but that didn't work out so well. So I ditched the Cetra surname and picked up his instead."

Tyrael thought about pressing further, but didn't. Things between his clan and him hadn't worked out either, and it would be hypocritical to push for details where he would be reluctant to give them. Instead he retreated to a neutral topic: work.

"Have you been running the desert network long, Rufina?"

"A few years," she shrugged. "I'll probably run it for the rest of my life. It's such a big area that it counts as migration, and I'm in good standing with the lifestream."

"Lone Cetra usually are," he nodded. A lone Cetra who traversed the desert could do pretty much anything without penalty, but the harsh conditions would be brutal on travel. This led him to ask, "What kind of chocobo do you use, Rufina?"

"I don't use a chocobo," she waved him toward the door and followed him back outside, "and I would appreciate it if you just called me Cid."

"Cid?" Tyrael was slightly distracted by the sight of the two pack chocobos flanking his chocobo with evil looks on their faces, "You really don't like your Cetra names, do you?"

"I don't," she agreed strongly. Then she took his hand and led him around the side of the building, "This is my pride and joy. I call it the Landskipper."

At first Tyrael didn't know what he was looking at; it appeared to be little more than a shaped wooden deck, roughly the size of a house. It dipped slightly in the middle and a small rim ran along the edges. The deck was shaped roughly like an arrowhead, and a long post that Tyrael was beginning to suspect was a mast was currently lying flat. Ropes and clamps were tidily stacked along the deck as well.

Finally he asked, "How does it work?"

From the mischievous grin that spread over Cid's face, it was clear she'd been waiting for him to ask, "Hop on; I'll show you."

He considered the promise he'd made Zalbez – straight down, straight back – and promptly climbed aboard. The mail could wait a few hours.

"Sit there," Cid pointed to a section of the deck with a thick curl of rope clearly meant to be a handhold, "and hold on tight."

Tyrael did as he was told, and once the rope was firmly gripped in his hands he jokingly asked, "Will I be safe, Captain Cid?"

The grin on Cid's face wasn't altogether sane, and after she'd sat cross-legged on the deck she pulled a black laced glove over her right hand and placed a black, worn mage's hat on her head, "No promises."

At the same time the Landskipper lifted off the ground, Tyrael realized how it worked; it was powered by the lifestream. He turned to ask Cid how she managed it, when earlier she'd told him she couldn't control the lifestream, but the ship gave a sudden jump forward and the house immediately shrank to a small bump in the distance. Then it was gone altogether. He faced the front and immediately squinted, the wind rushing at his face as they raced across the ground.

Tyrael's eyes were watering, a fact that he registered but forgot as soon as he looked back at Cid again. She was standing now, her arms spread wide and her feet barely planted. Her hair was whipping away behind her, but somehow her hat remained on her head.

"Come on, Tyrael!" She hopped across the deck to him, her body seemingly ignoring the fact it was on a piece of wood going 60 miles an hour, "You're a Cetra; you don't have to hang on to that any more!"

"Are you crazy?!" Even as he shouted it, he could feel his hands start to detach themselves from the rope, "How are you even steering this thing?!"

"It's my personal Implement!" She had to shout even when she was a foot away; the wind was howling, "I used the lifestream to help me build it!"

"Really?" Tyrael considered this as he finally released the handhold and pushed himself rather shakily to his feet. She didn't mean to, but Cid had just given him a large clue as to which Cetra clan she'd come from.

A Cetra's clan name was composed of two parts; a colour and a location. The latter was obviously which lands the clan was traditionally found in, and clans from the same lands interacted with each other regularly. The colour, however, gave a nod to the traditions of the clan that varied from traditions of other clan colours. Clans containing White in their name, for example, were quite adept at healing. That was the theory, anyway; Tyrael personally was quite clumsy at healing anyone other than himself. From his travels and meeting many Cetra, Tyrael knew the defining traits of many Cetra clans; Rose clans used their lifestream connection to test and probe everything; Cyan clans focussed on aesthetics and athleticism; and Black clans, which he was now confident Cid was once a part of, used the lifestream to temper and craft an object into an Implement they could use with incredible proficiency.

He kept his thoughts to himself, and panicked as the wind shoved him roughly along the deck towards the edge.

"Use the lifestream, silly!" Cid gripped the back of his coat, a giggle in her throat and the crazed grin still on her face.

The instant Tyrael searched for the lifestream and found it the shoving wind ceased. They were still blazing across the chapped desert, but most of his body felt like he was standing in a room. His hair was still being blown around by the wind, though, and he had to wonder if that was an oversight in Implement construction on Cid's part, or if she'd left it that way intentionally. After all, sometimes there was no better feeling that facing the wind and having it ruffle your hair. He faced back to the front, and a slight breeze blew into his face; just enough to cause him to take a deep breath inwards.

"This is amazing, Cid," he stated simply.

She smiled, "This is why I'll be a Cetra forever."

*

Eventually they returned to the house, their faces pleasantly scoured by the wind and their hair blown every which way. Tyrael's chocobo looked annoyed to see him, mostly because it was roosting halfway up the steep, rocky hill behind the house so that the two pack chocobo couldn't reach it. From the numerous scratch marks on the lower section of the hill it was clear that they'd tried, but now they were both settling in for the night. One gave a snitty "wark" upon seeing Tyrael, probably because it was recalling Zalbez's words, but he ignored it and whistled to his chocobo.

It trotted down the hill easily, gave him an affectionate nip as he pulled off his pack and its saddle, and then went back to its established roost. He followed Cid into the house, not bothering to take the tack off the borrowed chocobos. The mail was already sitting by the door, and Tyrael didn't feel like wrestling with the ornery birds this late in the day.

*

The next morning Tyrael woke up feeling more refreshed than he'd felt in a long time. He'd set up his bedroll on the floor of the bedroom, and in the presence of the blooming flowers he and Cid had talked late into the night. It felt so good to talk with someone else without having to censor his words, and he was regretting having to part ways with her so soon, but they both had routes to run and it wouldn't make sense to their human employers as to why they were dallying in the wilderness.

As they were packing their respective mail bundles, Tyrael brought up the only topic he'd made a conscious decision to avoid the previous night, "Hey, Cid?"

"Yeah?" She was in the middle of hauling a bulky mailbag into place, and he waited until she'd strapped it down and dusted off her hands before continuing.

"Have you heard the current status of Hume?"

"No, why? Have they suddenly decided that humans and Cetra are equals?"

"No, they're getting ready to go to war."

He had her full attention. She immediately dropped the bag she'd been about to load and stared at him, "Tell me."

"They're starting to send dispatches to other human cities, but that's all I could find out without drawing more attention to myself. If they're going to war with Wutai…"

"They're not."

"Or Zolema…"

"They're not. Come on, Tyrael, you know they're not! They're going to mobilize against the Cetra, and hit them just in time for the yearly migration!"

He was glad he wasn't just being paranoid, "There's more. I saw them dragging several Cetra women through the streets. They'd _branded_ them. I tried to stop them, but I was…"

"Don't be an idiot, there's nothing you could have done. If someone stopped you they did you a huge favour." She stared at a spot on the ground, thinking hard, before slamming her fist into her palm, "I'll tell as many Cetra as I can. You have to get back to Hume and keep tabs on them. Are you moved to this route permanently?"

"I'm not sure. I might alternate between this and the mountain-river."

"Then I'll try to get a Cetra moved onto a corresponding route over there. We're not as solitary a people as those xenophobic scum think we are!"

Tyrael was shocked at how vehement she'd suddenly become. This was the same woman who'd giggled like a girl when he'd taken his shirt off to go to bed. He was also rather relieved that she was taking charge; now he could simply follow orders and not attempt to lead, an action that had led to disaster in the past.

"Do you know of any clans planning on using the Great Mountain Pass? It'll be almost completely blocked by Hume's wall by now."

"No," Cid shook her head, "but it's definitely going to be used this summer. Alright, let's get going!"

Tyrael nodded and swung up onto his chocobo's back. For once the bird wasn't insisting on wearing its postman's cap; maybe it saw that the pack chocobos were wearing them, and it wanted to make extra certain Tyrael distinguished it as different. As if he couldn't tell the difference between two yellow birds and a black one.

"Good luck, Cid."

She gave him a sad smile, "I think you'll need more luck than I will. Go save the world, Postman."


	3. An Ambassador Trio

An Ambassador Trio

Summer was less than a week away when Tyrael returned to Hume, and it was preceded by angry thunderclouds hanging in the sky. Wanting to make it to the city and deposit the pack chocobos before the rain hit, Tyrael pushed his own chocobo hard for the last few miles. The group crested the small hill with no intent of pausing at the top, but the sight that greeted Tyrael when Hume came into view caused him to rein in his chocobo and stare.

Hume's wall was completed, but if its purpose was to completely block traffic it was failing. The sheer sides of the Great Mountain Pass were intended to funnel all humans and Cetra, but the same could not be said for chocobos. All along the sides and tops of the mountains were black chocobos: there must have been a thousand of them. He gave his chocobo a nudge and moved forward slowly, unable to grasp what exactly he was seeing.

Thunder rolled overhead, but none of the chocobos moved, and it was this lack of movement that clued Tyrael into the fact that all of the birds were being ridden. From the way they were flanking and looking down on Hume, it was fairly obvious that they weren't carrying Hume soldiers.

"Halt!"

He obliged the command as five city guards rode out to him on yellow chocobos. As they approached, spears levelled and faces clearly hostile, Tyrael sighed and poked his chocobo gently, "It figures that the one time you don't remind be about the caps, it actually matters."

The bird fluffed its feathers, clearly thinking something similar. It wasn't long before the group was surrounded by the guards, and the captain glared at Tyrael. He didn't say anything yet, and Tyrael could imagine why. The captain looked like he was a fairly intelligent man, and he was trying to figure Tyrael out. The black chocobo automatically sent up an alarm, but he was also travelling with pack chocobos laden quite visibly with bags of mail.

Finally the captain barked, "Present papers!"

Tyrael removed the papers from one of his packs and passed them over with a steady hand. The captain went through the papers twice, glaring at the words the entire time like they were lying to him, before finally thrusting them back at Tyrael.

"Form up!" He commanded, and the group of six men and eight chocobos moved into the city. The gates banged closed behind them, and Tyrael's stomach twisted: no going back.

Once they'd reached the post office, the captain dismounted and strode inside. Eventually he came back out, Zalbez behind him, and swung back onto his chocobo with some difficulty. Tyrael felt a momentary disdain of the human's heavy armour that was interrupted by Zalbez's hand thumping down on his thigh.

"Excellent progress, Ty-boy! Didn't expect you back for another week, must have had direct contact with the other postie, right?" Zalbez didn't let him answer, his eyes on the lingering guards, "Well? Come on, come on, dismount and unpack, I'll take care of the pack chokeys."

Tyrael did as he was told, his intuition telling him that there was something Zalbez desperately wanted to say without the guards overhearing. Tyrael's chocobo, oddly enough, had no greater desire to stay in the street than he did; normally it was an incredibly social bird and chirped to every chocobo in sight. Instead, it was nudging his shoulder rather urgently in the direction of the stable. Afraid that the guards would question his chocobo's behaviour, Tyrael led it back to the stables and untacked it there.

Once finished, he took his mail back and hurried into the post office. Zalbez was sorting letters and packages, but as soon as Tyrael entered he dropped what he was doing and motioned Tyrael into the back room.

"Y'all right, Ty-boy? They didn't hassle you?" He seemed genuinely concerned, and insisted that Tyrael sit down.

"I'm fine, considering I have no idea what's going on." Tyrael fixed Zalbez with a passive but questioning gaze, "I think it would be best if you enlightened me."

Zalbez's eyes darted back and forth, but eventually he sighed and said, "They arrived just under a week ago: came through the mountain pass. There were just a few at first, and the city council didn't let them through. Then suddenly all these _warriors_ show up on their damned frightening birds, and the city goes into lockdown! And what does the council decide is best? Comb the city for Cetra and lock them up! Two thirds of my posties are in prison!" Zalbez was incensed, "I told them I only hire humans, but those damn guards just follow orders. They don't listen to sense!"

Tyrael didn't bother correcting him, and focused on the main issue, "Has either side attacked yet?"

"No." Zalbez didn't see this as the positive it was, "They just lurk there and impede progress."

"Yes," Tyrael persisted, "but no one has died, no shots have been fired, and no weapons have clashed. There's still a chance a battle can be avoided."

Zalbez frowned, "Tyrael, don't you understand, boy? Hume doesn't want a battle, it wants a _war_. It just isn't ready for it yet."

"But why? Hume is economically booming. There's no _reason_ to wage a war."

"The Cetra are getting cocky. This is our land, and they think they can walk all over it with impunity."

"Zalbez, why speak of war and disciplining the Cetra when Hume's army isn't ready to mobilize?" Tyrael couldn't stop the questions pouring from his mouth. "There's an organized army breathing down our backs and we're still denouncing their people! We're like peasants with pitchforks to them!"

Zalbez glared at him. "You'd better watch it, or people will think you're a Cetra supporter."

"I'm a conflict diffuser!" Tyrael snapped.

The two men stared each other down. Tyrael wished he were standing, so he could lock eyes with Zalbez without craning his neck, but the growing soreness in his neck did nothing to detract from his determination. For a postmaster, Zalbez had a stubborn pride so fierce it made Tyrael wonder why the man had never sought a position on the city council.

"Conflict diffuser, huh?" Zalbez pondered this, his hands twining together behind his back as he paced across the room, "You know, Ty-boy, you may be on to something."

Tyrael was instantly suspicious, "What do you mean?"

"Look at you!" Zalbez hauled him to his feet and stepped back, spreading his arms wide, "Why, your appearance practically _shouts_ Cetra!"

"What?!" Tyrael felt his hand twitch towards the hilt of his sword.

Zalbez didn't notice, "Come now, surely someone's told you this before, if you haven't seen it yourself! You're a fit enough lad, but you just don't have the same build as the average man of Hume. I'm saying you're more like those terrorists up on the mountain. There's your black chocobo… and that hair of yours! Practically metallic! It's perfect!"

"I'm confused."

Zalbez leaned over his desk, motioning Tyrael to follow suit so he could whisper his plan, "We get you to ride up to the Cetra and say you're one of them. You know about captives in the city, and you're advising against any militaristic action if they want the captives back. Keep them occupied while we regroup."

"You're going to send me, alone, into Cetra ranks. That's a recipe for failure."

"Not alone, Ty-boy! We're sending a trio! The other two will be straight human ambassadors. Only you fake the Cetra thing."

Tyrael hesitated, "Who are the other two?"

*

"…and once we're done here, you can drop that dull as ditch-water mail route and join our mercenaries!" Osrik was in a wonderful mood as he, Tyrael and Lotsu waited for an audience with the head of the city council.

"You'll never give that up, will you?" Tyrael sighed and stared at the ugly wooden doors of the council hall. They weren't carved, they weren't properly hung… the only imposing thing about them was their height.

"Correct." Osrik glanced down at Tyrael, his jubilant grin fading a notch, "I'm not entirely sure I agree with this plan, you know. Sure, you're scrawny enough to be a Cetra," this drew the irritated glare he'd been aiming for, "but they have rituals and things that you can't just fake. What if they demand proof you're one of them?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." Tyrael was already uncomfortable with being put into a central role, and he wished Osrik wouldn't show so much concern, "Besides, they probably won't even see us. Do we know what clan it is?"

"A hostile one," Osrik muttered.

Lotsu watched the exchange between the two of them from her place on the sill. One day, perhaps, there would be windows in it, but for now the breeze blew freely into the hall. From here she could see the hundreds of black chocobo lining the mountains, and felt her head shake slowly. The hope that this would be an isolated incident was crushed by the certainty it would not.

The doors to the hall finally swung open, and a platoon of guards exited. From the grim looks on their faces it was clear that they were being sent to look for more Cetra within the city walls. The real question was: what were they going to do with them?

Osrik moved to the open doors, and Tyrael and Lotsu formed up behind him. They moved into the hall, where the council head was sitting at the table and looking over papers as if not concerned in the slightest that a small army of Cetra was ready to swarm his city. He was a middle-aged man, his hands showing that he'd rarely worked a day in his life and his gut confirming it. Only when they'd stopped before him did he look up, and he didn't bother offering them a seat.

"So, you're the ambassadors Zalbez was talking about. I must say, at first I thought he was insane to actually want to _talk_ with those filthy creatures, but now I see his true intention."

Osrik frowned at this, "Surely, Lord Trompart, the idea was your own?"

Trompart harrumphed and adjusted himself in his chair, blustering, "Of course it was mine! I'm head of the council, aren't I? We've been going through possible ambassadors all week, but you three… well you seem to be a diverse group."

His tone suggested he didn't know if this was a good thing or not. First there was Osrik, the hulking blonde who'd obviously served military time before being a mercenary. Next was Lotsu, the Wutaian mercenary with a permanently dignified and aloof expression on her face. Finally there was Tyrael, the "faux" Cetra postman with an Eastern-continent build and bronze hair. It would be difficult indeed to find a more varied trio in Hume.

"So," Osrik prompted, not particularly believing the man's bluster, "are you going to give us our official orders?"

"And documents?" Lotsu added.

Trompart glared at her, "Documents? What are you talking about? Documents!" He scoffed, "Just go out there and talk to them, you don't need a piece of paper to do that!"

"Official ambassadors--"

"Maybe that's how you do things in Wutai," he sneered, "but your side lost, remember? That means that we get to run things the way we want here. If you have a problem with that, maybe you should--"

"Excuse me." Osrik's voice was louder than before, and more commanding, "I am not here to listen to you insult my wife, and neither is she. Official orders."

Trompart seemed a little taken aback that the impertinent Wutaian was Osrik's wife, but he reasoned that the man had probably picked her up during the end of the war, when they'd sacked the Western continent. He went back to rummaging, before admitting to himself that he hadn't prepared any official orders, and grumped, "Just say that you're there to talk about peace and releasing the prisoners."

"And the prisoners are still alive to be released?" Tyrael questioned.

Trompart frowned, "Look, why doesn't one of you speak and the other two just stand there. This feels like an interrogation and I won't have it!"

Osrik motioned Lotsu and Tyrael to stand down, "Are the prisoners still alive?"

The question clearly irritated Trompart, "Not to sound picky, but you three have been recommended by a man whose staff was over-half-filled with the very _things_ that are lining the mountains. I'm not telling you everything when you could very well be spies. All you need to know is that we, the people of Hume, will not release the prisoners until such time as the Cetra leave the mountains and withdraw from anywhere near Hume lands. Then and only then will the captured Cetra be left outside the city gates."

Osrik nodded, "Very well, but you must know that our position would be stronger if we were to provide proof that the Cetra _are_ still alive."

"I have other business to attend to," was Trompart's reply, waving them away. "Try not to get shot."

Tyrael only managed one step forward before Osrik put an arm out and blocked him. He glared up at the taller man, but his eyes were met with a mirrored expression and he let himself be led out of the hall, Lotsu following behind.

Once the doors were closed and the three were well on their way, Trompart gave up all pretence of looking through the papers and waved over the man who'd been standing unobtrusively in the corner the whole time, out of sight of the three ambassadors, "How are the preparations for the festival going?"

"As according to plan," the man replied. "Scholars from around the world are accepting the invitations… along with warriors who recognize the Cetra for the scum they are."

"Good." Trompart frowned and pulled at his lower lip, "Should we inform our _ambassadors_ of the prisoners once they get back? _If_ they get back?"

"No: best to keep them in the dark about it." The man bowed and backed away from the council table, "The lines of loyalty are constantly being redrawn."


	4. Negotiations

Negotiations

Considering they were supposed to be ambassadors, the city guards certainly didn't treat them as such. After being forcefully escorted out the gates into the Mountain Pass, the three were treated to the less-than-comforting bang of the large wooden doors behind them. The sides of the pass loomed to either side of them, disturbingly bare of any vegetation or other life. If there had been any greenery, the Cetra's chocobo had already picked it clean. From far above them came the sound of a chocobo's call, and several more answered it. A minute went by before another call echoed down the pass, and this one was considerably closer.

"Well, it looks like it's time to go to work!" Osrik hoisted the peace flag and strode away from the meager protection of the wall, waving it back and forth. Lotsu smiled at Tyrael and tipped her head in the direction her husband had gone before following after him.

Tyrael brought up the rear, not entirely sure what to think. On the one hand he would be safe—unless the Cetra shot first and identified later—but on the other this was hardly going to be a civil meeting. Genuine or not, they were representing Hume, and the WhiteHill clan was hardly credible to begin with. His hand twitched briefly to the sword belted at his hip, but he forced it to move away. He just couldn't channel Osrik's optimism.

The clatter of pebbles on the floor of the Pass was the final warning they received before the Cetra scouting party arrived. Their mounts descended the sheer sides of the pass with ease, and Tyrael found himself wishing Trompart had allowed him to bring his own chocobo. Not only would it point to some degree of similarity between himself and the Cetra, but he didn't like the fact that there were no extra chocobo among the party. It meant, among other things, that they didn't expect this meeting to get any closer to the Cetra camp than it already was.

The chocobo formed up in a W-pattern, and Tyrael sighed. They could have at least made _some_ effort to not appear militant: the riders and their mounts were fully armoured, and each rider either carried a weapon or had it strapped to their back. Tyrael followed Lotsu and Osrik, who was still waving that idiotic flag back and forth, until they were standing in front of the central rider. As predicted, the two wings of the formation closed up behind them and left them encircled. No going back.

"We come as a peace delegation from the City of Hume," Osrik's voice was clear and strong. "The city's council has expressed its desire to address and resolve any altercations in a peaceful manner. The last thing we want is bloodshed."

_At least for now_, Tyrael thought darkly. He had to admit, however, that he was surprised at Osrik's tone. It wasn't exactly common for mercenaries to be orators.

"Your council seeks peace with an army breathing down its back, and no sooner," the lead rider frowned at them from beneath his helmet, his chocobo clacking its beak. He sounded young, and looked the same. Osrik looked around: they _all_ looked young. Most didn't even have stubble on their cheeks.

"I don't pretend to know the inner workings of the council, nor can I influence its decisions." Osrik finally put the butt of the peace flag on the ground and propped his elbow on the top of the pole, "Is this as far as we're going?"

"Until we decide whether your words are worth the time of our leader, yes."

"Lotsu," Osrik turned his head a little towards her, though his eyes remained on the man who'd spoken, "make a note: Cetra don't follow negotiation etiquette."

"We follow it with those who deserve it," another rider growled.

"That's not how it works, son." Osrik shook his head with a rueful smile, "You follow it or you don't. Cut, dry, done. Don't worry though, you probably don't have a chocobo strong enough to carry me up there."

"They do." This came from Tyrael, who'd been studying the emblem on the harness of the chocobo closest to him, "These are just scouting chocobo. Their battle birds are still up there."

He was expecting the spear to come close, but not to actually bump under his jaw. The one holding it looked embarrassed at the mistake, but recovered fairly quickly, "And how do you know that, human?"

Tyrael tilted his head away from the blade, "Because I'm a Cetra."

*

"Nicely played, Tyrael, but I still think they gave me the bumpiest one they own," Osrik clung to the black chocobo as they scaled the mountain, his face expressionless save for the colour slowly leaving it. The chocobo of the three ambassadors were all on lead lines, and the Cetra were keeping a good thirty feet ahead of them. While it certainly proved the point of segregation, it also gave the three time to talk.

Tyrael rolled his eyes and tried to get the chocobo he was riding to take a smoother course. It ignored him, "I wouldn't doubt it. This isn't exactly a clan known for their hospitality."

Lotsu glanced over at him, "You know the clan?"

"I do." Tyrael gave up any attempt to interact with his bird and let it do what it wanted, "BlackFrost. Hume quite literally picked the worst clan to get on the bad side of. All the Frost clans are militant, and the BlackFrost have customized weapons that serve as natural extensions of their bodies."

"Warriors born and raised," Lotsu observed. "You know much of the Cetra."

"Yeah, well, 'I am one'," Tyrael barely remembered to exaggerate that last part. "You pick up a lot when you deliver mail. More than when you're a mercenary."

"Har har." Osrik grumped. He was still irritated over how the Cetra had taken his axe away from him. A mercenary without a weapon was practically naked.

By the time they reached the summit, moisture clung thick to their clothing and drenched their hair. All three forced themselves to sit up straight, and Osrik managed a broad smile. Lotsu nodded politely. Tyrael kept his eyes on the back of his chocobo's head, just wanting the whole thing to be over and done with.

They dismounted outside a large tent that was clearly meant for far harsher weather, and were led inside. A table was set up in the middle of the tent with a terrain map of the area, and several men were already laying out strategy for attack.

"Hume's ambassadors. One says he's Cetra." the lead rider remarked, sarcasm evident in his voice. Then he withdrew to the side of the tent, leaving the three in the presence of the war council.

The clan leader was immediately identifiable, with thick silver hair and a carefully trimmed beard. He snapped his fingers once and the table was taken away, "Well? Which of you is it?"

Osrik looked like he wanted to say something, perhaps remind the man of decorum, but Tyrael stepped forward and bowed slightly, "That would be me."

"Hmm." The man gave Tyrael a once-over, then waved his hand at Osrik and Lotsu in a shooing motion, "Wait outside. If he's Cetra we'll talk. If he's not we'll kill him and send you two back."

"Now wait just a minute!" Osrik blustered, stepping forward. There were two spears at his throat in an instant, "This is a violation of the peace flag."

Tyrael turned to shrug a shoulder at him, "It's fine. Hume isn't exactly a beacon of moral behaviour either."

Osrik subsided, but it still took three Cetra to herd him out of the tent. Lotsu resisted as well, in her own quiet way, and her eyes told Tyrael that they'd have a lot to talk about later. She didn't seem worried in the least, which worried _him_.

"Your name." The leader didn't seem willing to waste time or breath.

"Tyrael WhiteHill."

"The WhiteHills settled."

"I didn't."

"You left your clan?"

"They left the Cetra."

"We can test you."

"I know." Tyrael looked around, "Got a plant?"

Much to Tyrael's surprise, a large grin split the clan leader's face, "I hope you _are_ a Cetra, boy. You certainly don't mince words. But no, no plant. Linnea!"

The lead rider stepped forward, and Tyrael blinked as he—she—removed her helmet and shot him a sullen look. Well, that certainly explained the high voice and beardless chin. In her hand she held what appeared to be a simple rock, but upon closer inspection it was perfectly spherical, and contained five inlaid stones of different colours.

The clan leader took Tyrael's hand and positioned it an inch or two above the sphere in Linnea's hand, "Call the lifestream, Tyrael."

"Through this?"

"Yes."

Now was probably the worst time in the world to admit he could barely call enough lifestream when his fingers were shoved into fertile soil. Calling it from the top of a mountain wasn't going to be any easier. His eyes slipped closed and he immediately felt like an idiot. Summon the lifestream _through_ something? He supposed this was how all Black clans used their Implements, but it was a foreign concept to him.

Fortunately, they didn't pressure him to hurry. Tyrael's hand drifted a little lower, and he felt something swirl against his palm. Lifestream? It felt different. He concentrated, reaching for something without being fully aware of what it was. A soft and gentle breeze had begun to blow—_we're in a tent, that's not possible_—but he kept reaching. Next was a voice in his head, but the words didn't make any sense. Just fragments. Laughter. Nothing that would…

"All right."

A hand squeezed his shoulder, and the strange sensation disappeared. He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. The first thing he noticed, the first thing he said, was, "You both have silver hair."

The clan leader patted his shoulder and took his hand back, "Most BlackFrost do. I like to think it's the climate and the connection with steel."

Linnea was still frowning at him, "Why are you an ambassador for that place? They've killed over a dozen of our people."

"We don't know that for sure," Tyrael took a step back so he could face both the clan leader and Linnea. "That's mostly why we're here. There's a chance that they're still alive. Maybe not all of them, but some."

"We have tried contacting them through the lifestream," the clan leader sighed, "but they do not respond. Perhaps they do not listen."

"Or are already dead!" Linnea snapped, "At which point we're sitting here cooling our heels while Hume gathers an army under it."

Tyrael sent a sidelong smirk at the clan leader, "Daughter?"

"Niece," he chuckled, "and not yet a full warrior. Linnea, please escort the other two back inside."

Linnea frowned at both of them and turned for the tent flaps. The clan leader nudged Tyrael, "These other two…?"

"Trustworthy, but they don't know I'm Cetra." Tyrael felt his gut twist, and amended to himself that Lotsu very well might. "They've been trying to scout the location of the Cetra prisoners while I was away."

"Away?"

"I carry post."

"And I'll be damned if he'll do it again after this!" This was Osrik's way of declaring to all present that he wasn't going to be separated from either of his team again. "So, he passed. Are you going to test for something else now?"

"Osrik…"

Tyrael's warning was unnecessary, for the clan leader chuckled and snapped his fingers again. The table returned to its former position, and he waved them around it, "I suppose I can test your strategic skills. My name is Brahms, and I am both the leader of the BlackFrost and the war general of all Frost clans."

Osrik's face was unimpressed, "Fancy titles. Talk numbers."

"Upwards of ten thousand warriors and two thousand scouts at my command, and all will arrive in the next two weeks."

"You have my full attention."

*

The ride back down the hill was nothing like their previous ride. Their weapons were back at their sides, and they were allowed to steer their own chocobos. Their own _smooth-gaited_ chocobos. Osrik rode at the front with one of the older warriors who escorted them down, and in short order the two were talking animatedly about past skirmishes. Lotsu was content to ride beside them in silence, listening and occasionally looking back at the pair trailing behind the bulk of the riders.

Tyrael and Linnea hadn't talked much once Brahms got started on his explanation of force information and Osrik had joined in with details on the town's interior. Neither one had felt the need to point out to the burly human that he was more turncoat than ambassador, each content to think their own thoughts.

Now, however, Linnea glanced over at Tyrael with concern in her eyes, "Tyrael, my uncle didn't tell you this, but four of the women taken into the city were from our clan. My age. They were on their Journey to bond with their Implements when they were taken."

"Not even full adults," he observed.

Linnea nodded, "I was to have started my Journey a week ago, but it's been postponed because of this. It's only right: I don't want to put myself before the clan, but…"

"But if it comes down to a battle you won't be allowed to participate."

"And you will," she added bitterly. "A Cetra from a disgraced clan will fight where a Cetra from a proud one cannot."

They continued down the mountain for a few minutes, letting silence mix with the wind, and only when they were drawing near the bottom did Tyrael glance at her again, "I suggest you don't lust for battle, Linnea. I certainly don't."

_Not any more_.


	5. An Exchange of Knowledge

An Exchange of Knowledge

It was understandable, but not by much, that Trompart would be too busy to meet with them that same day. Though the rest of the city breathed a somewhat premature sigh of relief that the Cetra weren't yet attacking, and their ambassadors had returned alive and whole, that same mood couldn't soak into the mercenaries. All of Hume was preparing for a festival while hostile warriors sat on the mountains watching. Only here, in Hume, would such a self-imposed state of denial exist. More than a few town criers were wandering about, already stating that the Cetra were using intimidation tactics with nothing to back them up, and even though these announcements were unfounded and clearly crammed full of bravado, they had the effect of calming the populace. Some citizens even went up on the walls and blatantly mocked the Cetra, sending rude gestures and calling out insults.

The reaction of the people was disturbing, the continual postponement of their meeting with Trompart was frustrating, but above it all Tyrael felt his heart wrench every time the BlackFrost Cetra tried to reach their clanmates and other Cetra being held captive in the town. He could hear the lifestream's call, and even though it was not for him he had no choice but to answer each time. Linnea's irritation at his continual replies was masked, though not entirely, by her uncle's understanding. If Tyrael continually refused to respond, he might unintentionally revoke his Cetra status.

More than once, he tried to get Zalbez to assign him to a mail route. His argument, which was ignored despite the sense of it, was that the contact had been made, and now Osrik was the one who needed to speak to Trompart. There was nothing Tyrael could say to convince the Head of Council of anything, but apparently he couldn't convince Zalbez of anything either.

"Need you here, Ty-boy." The postmaster informed him, trying to distract his former postie from the overflowing parcels and letters on the shelves, "Important work you're doing. Real important."

"I'm not saying that it isn't. I'm saying that until we can talk to Trompart and get a better sense of what's going on, and why Hume is being _decorated_ for a _party_, we can't go back and talk to the Cetra, and therefore I'm useless. Trompart doesn't want to listen to me, only Osrik. And look at this place, it's clear that you need more…"

"Tyrael. Tyrael, Tyrael, Tyrael." Zalbez dropped a meaty arm around Tyrael's shoulder, "You know how we set you up to be a fake Cetra?"

"…yes…"

"Well, some of the townsfolk are believin' you are. So you can't go anywhere. What would happen if you never came back, huh? They'd think you were a Cetra for sure, and that'd shoot the whole credibility of the ambassadors." Zalbez shook his head, "You just stay put. Enjoy the festival."

"And what _festival_ is this, Zalbez?" He didn't bother pointing out that the whole 'ambassador' thing was publicly thought of as a sham.

"To celebrate the enlightened nature of humans! Why, did no one tell you?" Zalbez gave Tyrael a hearty clap to the back before letting him go, shuffling over to his desk, "All the brightest minds are gathering here to share their ideas and further our understanding and ability."

"And if the Cetra were to attack while the festival took place, it would be seen as a brutish act against a gathering meant to better people's lives," Tyrael observed dryly.

"There's that too, yes." Zalbez shrugged, "An unfortunate coincidence, them flanking us and threatening war when we were planning this out."

Soon after, Tyrael excused himself from Zalbez's presence and left the post office. He was sick of the delays, and wanted answers. If the Cetra prisoners were alive, much of the tension would decrease. The constant probes from the lifestream assured him of that. There could only be so long before all the hostility and desperation broke. For this reason, his steps took him unswervingly in the direction of the City Hall. When Osrik found out that Tyrael had gone without him, _if_ he found out, the mercenary leader would be far from impressed. But in Tyrael's mind, the time for conforming to the wishes and whims of the Council Leader was over.

It was surprising, to say the least, that he was able to make it to the large wooden doors without any of the myriad of guards trying to stop him, or at least impede his progress. Tyrael wasted no time in throwing open the doors and stepping inside, but his dramatic entrance was almost entirely wasted. The only one in the room was a simple clerk, and he was busy clearing up dishes from the council's lunch. Still, Tyrael approached him and cleared his throat, waiting for the man to look up. One could never know who had valuable information.

"Yes?" The clerk blinked when he saw who it was, and a hesitant smile crossed his face, "Ah, one of our ambassadors. I'm sorry, the council has ended its session for the day. Most of the councilmen have gone down to the square to partake in the festivities."

"Including Trompart?"

Another blink was given at Tyrael's confrontational tone, and the clerk nodded slowly, "Including the Council Head, yes. Even the most put-upon and diligent of leaders must take time for themselves."

"You'd think he would show more concern for Hume, with all the Cetra on the mountains."

"I rather think that he is putting on a brave face for the people." The clerk set the dishes he was holding back on the table, and turned to face Tyrael fully, "Will that be all?"

Tyrael noticed, only then, that the man was armed. What kind of a clerk carried a sword at all times? Still, he reasoned to himself that he was only doing his job when he asked, "Do you know the status of the Cetra prisoners? Such information could only help our negotiations…"

"If I remember correctly," the clerk's tone was distracted, as if he were musing it over, "I don't believe you are supposed to be negotiating with the Cetra; just stalling them. The knowledge of whether or not the Cetra in our city are still alive, therefore, and what condition they may or may not be in, does not concern you. I suggest you enjoy the festivities as well, ambassador, before regrouping with your associates."

Tyrael gritted his teeth. The man definitely wasn't a simple clerk, but he didn't have the luxury of questioning him any further without drawing undue suspicion onto himself. Instead, he nodded as cordially as he was able and excused himself, his hands clenched into fists all the way out of the building.

/

There may have been bright streamers in the city square, and light voices eagerly discussing the latest findings of the world, but that happy mood didn't penetrate the angry cloud that had descended over Tyrael. He was sick of being in Hume, sick of being used for a ploy without being able to discover the information that would allow him to turn the tide. The temptation to turn his back on all of this was crippled by the need to know the fate of the Cetra taken prisoner.

As he continued on his way, many of the citizens in the street parting in the presence of his foul mood, he felt the lifestream rising up to the surface. Assuming that it was another call from the BlackFrost, he prepared himself for communicating that he'd still learned nothing, but all that met him was silence. Confused, his steps slowed and eventually stopped, and he fought the urge to close his eyes as he tried to pinpoint the lifestream's location. His eyelids were fluttering, so he stepped out of the main thoroughfare and sat down at one of the hastily-constructed outdoor tables.

Only after he'd given a drink order to the insistent server did he try to find the lifestream again, and it didn't take much work to find. If his senses were telling him the truth, a group of approximately ten Cetra were calling it to the surface in this very square. Tyrael scanned the people there, his eyes darting back and forth in search of features normally characterizing Cetra, but could see nothing. Too impatient to wait for the server's return, he left a coin on the table and merged back into the crowd, pausing every few steps to touch the lifestream again.

His wandering steps finally brought him to a table manned by a young woman. Ignoring the thought of how many females he'd been meeting lately, and her, for that matter, Tyrael focused on what the table held. Eight glowing spheres, of varying colours, were carefully set in holders to prevent rolling. It was these spheres, he was positive, that were calling the lifestream to the planet's surface. What their purpose was, however, and why gathering the lifestream wasn't having an effect on the area around the booth, Tyrael had no idea.

"Hi there!"

His head jerked up at the enthusiasm in the girl's voice. Really, she was probably in her late teens, but… he could only think of her as a girl. Especially considering the women he was used to. It took him a moment to respond, and when he did it wasn't anything remarkably original, "Hello."

"I couldn't help but notice your interest in the Materia," she grinned at him. "Do you want to hear more about it?"

"Sure?" He'd switched from looking at the glowing orbs… the Materia… to looking scanning her face, trying to discern anything noticeably Cetra about it. Failing to do so, he just became even more confused.

"Well! Materia are these strange orbs, and they're being found _all_ over the _world_. There's an especially large deposit of Materia outside of the city of Zolema, which is where I'm from. Materia aren't mined, and you don't even have to dig for them. They just show up on the ground, and there are all sorts of theories as to why this is. Some people say that they're the residue of fallen stars, but this theory seems unlikely since Materia appear to be an extremely recent discovery, speaking in terms of human existence on the planet. Another theory is that they come from deep within the earth, but no one can explain why they haven't been dug for, or why they don't leave any kind of residual trail if they come to the surface on their own. A third theory is that they're spores from some kind of recently evolved plant, and if left on the ground they will root themselves and eventually grow into more trees of the same." The girl winked at him, "It sure is a mystery."

He decided to humour her, "And what theory do you believe?"

"The second one," she stated with confidence. "The colours are too consistent for them to be from space. There are only five varieties, and other dust and particles from space have already shown far more diversity." She pointed at a booth over on the far side of the square, "There's a very smart man over there talking about it. He says that the amount of dust falling to the earth over the past year has increased dramatically, and they're starting to experiment with uses for it."

"Fascinating. I'll head over there and listen, then." He had no intention of doing so, but as soon as he said it the brightness on the girl's face faded a little, "What?"

"Don't… you want to know what Materia does?"

If there was anything she could have said to bring his interest back to the front of his mind, that was it. He already knew what it did, at least he thought he did, but he wanted to know if she had any more information to enlighten him as to _why_. And _how_. Tyrael nodded, "I wasn't aware that it did anything?"

"Oh _yes_." She nodded enthusiastically, glad to have his attention once more. Picking up one of the green Materia, she held it up for him to inspect, "I'm just starting to learn how to use this one. It heals people."

"I… what?" Her previous explanation had been so detailed, he found his mind tripping over the brevity of what she'd just said.

"If people get hurt, I can heal them. Not very well, because I'm just learning, but you know… cuts and bruises and stuff. I can fix those. Isn't that convenient?"

Okay, this girl had definitely had the previous speech prepared for her by someone else. Tyrael locked eyes with her, "To be clear, you can cure people's injuries. You can do magic?"

"Yeah!"

"…do you know where you are?"

"Hume, obviously."

Was this girl an idiot? She definitely wasn't Cetra, that much he was absolutely certain of. Bracing his palms on the table, Tyrael leaned over slightly and muttered to her, "Hume, where the guards and all the people in charge link any kind of magic to the Cetra, and punish those who use it. If I were you, I wouldn't be so quick to brag about what you can do with the Materia."

She blinked wide-eyed at him, but even though her voice was quieter when she next spoke there was no fear in it; just curiosity, "Are you a guard?"

"No." He leaned back, taking his hands from the table and turning to go, "Thank you for the information, miss, but I have to be going."

"Amoret!" She was so quick to hold her hand out, she forgot the Materia was still in it. After switching it to her other hand, she extended her free one for a shake once more.

Tyrael looked down at the hand, then decided that if she was going to be so open about Materia and not condemning of Cetra, the least he could do was shake it. When it came to his name, however, he surprised himself by saying, "Osrik."

Amoret smiled at him and flitted her lashes, "It was very nice to meet you, Osrik. Thank you for the advice."

Tyrael nodded, merging back into the crowd. What were the chances he'd see her again?

/

Osrik wandered the square with Lotsu, encouraged by all the enlightened thinking present before him. He could only hope that with so much research and spreading of ideals, some of that spreading would infect the people of Hume. They could all do with some enlightening. His attention was eventually caught by a rather flashy booth, and the man running it clearly had oratory skills.

"Space!" The man exclaimed, gesturing towards the sky, "Do we really know what is out there? Do we have any idea? Science and research have shown us that we are but a small orb in a vast field, which begs the question of what _else_," he held up a finger, his voice suddenly going soft, "what else is out there? I tell you, ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning to find out."

Osrik nudged a little closer, ignoring his wife's exasperated sigh, and listened as the orator continued, "The truth of the matter is, we cannot expect to be assaulted by alien forces all in an instant. We must first recognize the minute contact of space for what it is, and work to understand it. This," he held up a small jar, which looked to contain a dense gray silt of some sort, "is the first contact. It seems inconsequential, perhaps even like the common rock-dust you can scrape off the side of a mountain," he wisely refrained from gesturing at the mountains outside of Hume, as there was a hostile army camped on it, "but it is not. Using the crude-yet-effective method of trial and error, the versatility of this dust is beginning to make itself known. Does anyone have a guess as to what uses have been discovered?"

Never one whose mind was far from the battlefield, Osrik piped up, "Weaponry?"

The man pointed to him, a knowing smile on his face, "Eventually yes, good sir. As it stands now, this entire jar of space-dust could probably only fashion an arrowhead, if that. But the dust has a high metallic content. Anyone else?"

"Osrik," Lotsu placed a hand on her husband's forearm, "he's pandering. Let's go."

"But I…" Osrik's attention was caught, not by the orator, but by the sight across the square. He was a good deal taller than most of the people present, which allowed him to see Tyrael speaking with a girl Osrik would guess was only a few years junior. "I had no idea Tyrael talked to people."

Lotsu raised an eyebrow, "Don't be ridiculous. He talks to all sorts of people."

"Well, fine then, _girl_ people. _Pretty_ girl people."

"Osrik, leave him alone."

Osrik was already wading through the crowd, and Lotsu followed with a tolerant sigh.

/

If Tyrael hadn't stopped to talk to Amoret, he would have gone straight back to the Pack Chokey and shut himself in his room, irritated and sullen. As it was, his delay was just enough time for Lord Trompart and his fellow advisors to wander into his path. Tyrael blinked, considered avoiding the slipshod councilor, and decided that this was as good a chance as any. His mood had brightened a little, or at least differed from its foul state, and he was ready to try reasoning once again.

"Lord Trompart," he nodded cordially.

Trompart started, the expression on his face full of guilt. He blinked a few times, trying to think of something to say, before finally going with, "It's a nice fair, isn't it?"

"Very," Tyrael agreed. It would probably be the _only_ thing they agreed on, "Some of the booths are truly displaying some cutting-edge ideas. Advantageous, to say the least."

"The booth on space-dust is particularly enlightening," Trompart suggested.

Tyrael blinked, wondering why everyone was so enamored with topics of outer space when there were still discoveries being turned up on earth, like the Materia. Not that he would be telling Trompart about Amoret's booth, "How so?"

"Why, the _versatility_, of course! The absolute _list_ of everything that dust can be applied to! Doubtless that anything like it exists on this planet, to be sure!" Trompart looked like he couldn't decide whether to keep his guard up or relax. It looked like Tyrael was going to have to make that decision for him.

"Sir, as regards the stalling of the Cetra…"

"Oh, stop harping on that, would you? My advisor told me all about you barging into the council room earlier today, and I must say that I'm not impressed about it. Not impressed at all," Trompart puffed himself up.

"But surely you can see the use in supplying your ambassadors with information? We can't lie with any confidence without knowing the truth, and if we keep telling the Cetra we don't know, they'll get impatient."

"I am _not_ going to supply a _postman_ with critical information of _state_."

"State? You're _one city_. That's –"

"Tyrael!" Osrik had finally caught up with the elusive postie, but instead of being able to rib him about the girl he'd been talking to, Osrik now had to smooth out a situation with Trompart, "Have you _seen_ the exhibit on space-dust? Fascinating stuff!"

"Why is everyone talking about some stupid exhibit when an entire army is breathing down our necks?" Tyrael snapped, glaring up at Osrik, "Am I simply caring too much that our whole city could be wiped out because of failed negotiations?"

Osrik blinked, only now realizing how badly he'd underestimated Tyrael's agitation. Still, he had to choose between soothing Tyrael's irritancy or Trompart's indignation. Unfortunately, he had to go with the one who could order the other's execution, "You're being overly dramatic, Tyrael. Trompart has the whole city to think about, and if he needs to withhold information to guarantee the citizens' safety then that's what must be done."

Trompart glared between the two of them, still not completely mollified but not willing to argue further, just in case he upset the much-more-physically-intimidating Osrik. "Well!" He blustered, "I feel justified in saying that all further conversations and assignments will be between myself and Osrik alone!" He sent an especially irate glare at Tyrael, and the pushed past them and continued through the square, his silent fellow councilmen trailing along behind him.

Both Tyrael and Osrik stayed silent until he was gone, and Tyrael would have liked to stay silent after that as well, but Osrik dropped a heavily-muscled arm around his shoulders and steered him towards the Pack Chokey, "Come along, my feisty friend. Drinks are on me."

"Osrik, I don't want—"

"And then you can tell me all about that cute young thing I saw you talking to!"

All Tyrael could do was send an exasperated look at Lotsu and sigh.

/

One too many drinks later, Tyrael was ready for bed. Osrik was still going strong, however, and the big man seemed reluctant to let Tyrael wander off; perhaps because Tyrael's irritation was still plainly evident. It didn't seem to matter that the door to Tyrael's room on the second floor was clearly visible from where they were sitting. A few of Osrik's mercenary band had joined them, and they all seemed eager to drink Tyrael under the table. Probably because they'd heard Osrik boasting about Tyrael's ability as a fighter, and were determined to best him in something else.

There was a lot of raucous laughter being thrown about the room, but most of it died when the door opened and in stepped Amoret. Tyrael didn't immediately recognize her, hazy as his vision was, and due to the crowd she didn't see him at first. She wandered up to the bar, oblivious to the strange looks being sent her way, and asked, "Excuse me? I was asking around town about a man named Osrik? And they said he comes here a lot?"

It wasn't just the bartender who pointed in Osrik's direction, and Tyrael groaned. Of course, _of course_ she would ask about Osrik when the actual man was present. With a bright smile, Amoret thanked the man and walked over to their table. More than a few people blinked when she went right past Osrik and spoke, instead, to Tyrael, "Hello again. I was thinking about what you were saying earlier."

Tyrael ignored the look Osrik was giving him. The look that clearly stated '_You gave her my name instead of yours, you antisocial idiot_'. Instead, he tried to make his voice as clear as possible, "Okay?"

Her tone went more conspiratory, "About the guards."

"Okay…?"

"That's why the Cetra are on the mountains, isn't it?" She persisted, sliding onto the bench across from him. She probably would have sat beside him if she could have, but Lotsu was taking that spot and didn't seem hurried to leave it. "They're there because of the guards punishing Cetra and Cetra supporters."

Tyrael smeared a hand across his face, "That's… about it, yeah."

"My friend is a Cetra," Amoret pouted. "She wouldn't say why she wouldn't come here and talk about her research, but I guess now I know. That isn't right. Humans and Cetra should be able to live together."

"Now, I'd just watch who you go saying that to, missie," Osrik interjected gently. "Especially now. This is supposed to be a festival of enlightenment, but that doesn't mean the guards will go any easier on people seen as Cetra sympathizers. Especially not with that army on the mountain."

"I think the army should just come into the city. Then they can get rid of all the stubborn people and live here."

"Cetra can't live in cities," Tyrael snapped. "Come on, you just said your friend is a Cetra, you should know that. Doesn't she leave and wander for long periods of time?"

"Well, yes…" Amoret looked a little taken aback by Tyrael's tone, "She's um… she's more of a tutor, actually. She goes around the Eastern Continent giving talks on Materia. I… followed along, and she told me some more about it. But I don't get it, Cetra should be able to sit still, shouldn't they?"

"No." Tyrael probably wouldn't have told her this if he were sober, but… nothing like a few tankards to loosen the inhibitions, "Cetra cannot claim a place as their own. They have to keep moving, or else they lose their connection with the lifestream. The whole problem with Hume is that this city is sitting right in the way of a major Cetra migration route."

"Tyrael…" Osrik warned, "Not so loud."

"Tyrael?" Amoret tilted her head, "Is that your last name?"

Really, Tyrael just wanted to go to bed. He sighed and gave a half-hearted shrug, "Sure. Look, it's been a long day, I…"

"No, don't go yet!" Amoret put her elbows on the table, "What happens if Cetra stay still?"

Osrik and Lotsu both looked interested, despite themselves, and Tyrael felt something inside himself snap. Why couldn't people just leave well enough alone? He longed to be back out on the road, travelling and being away from others. Except perhaps Cid; she didn't seem to bother him, "How would you like to hear a story, Amoret?"

Lotsu could hear the sarcasm dripping from Tyrael's voice, and put a cautionary hand on his arm, but Amoret nodded eagerly, "Very much."

"Once upon a time," Tyrael began, his tone still condescending, "there weren't any humans. None at all. There were only two sentient species on the whole planet; firecats and Cetra. The firecats lived on the edge of the Great Desert, where they still live today, but the Cetra liked to travel all over the world, communing with the lifestream.

"One day, some of the Cetra were feeling lazy. They looked at their tents, and asked each other if it wouldn't be easier if they stayed in one spot, and made a structure that was more durable than hide cloth. Over time, more and more Cetra saw what the first group was doing, and came to join them. They eventually decided to build a gigantic, ornate City in which they could all live, and look out and laugh at the Cetra still migrating and risking the mercy of the weather.

"Well, the lifestream wasn't exactly a _fan_ of this idea, as these sedentary Cetra weren't communing or helping the growth of the planet nearly as much as their wandering clansmen. In fact, most of them weren't communing with the lifestream at all. So one day, the lifestream simply cut off all ties with those Cetra, and never restored them to either the lazy Cetra or their offspring. And that, Amoret, is how Humans were made."

Amoret blinked at him, finally hearing all the bitterness in his voice. He felt a little bad at the hurt look on her face, especially since she'd seemed so genuinely interested, but it was too late to take it back now. She said nothing for a minute or two, sitting there quietly, and the other two didn't try to add anything to the conversation. Finally, her voice quiet, she asked, "What happened to the city?"

"Empty. No human goes there because it's too cold, and no Cetra goes because it represents the ultimate disgrace to the race. And now humans are trying to slaughter Cetra. Isn't tha—"

Tyrael probably would have gone on another sarcastic tirade, but it was around this time that Lotsu and Osrik shared a look, and Osrik swung a fist into Tyrael's head, knocking him out instantly.

/\\\End Chapter/\\\


	6. Not a Human

Not a Human

Tyrael's forehead felt like it was splitting, and it wasn't just from the alcohol. He vaguely remembered Osrik hitting him the previous night, and the more he remembered about what he'd said and how he'd acted the more he knew he'd deserved it. In fact, he found himself wondering why Osrik hadn't knocked him out sooner. At the first mention of anything Cetra would have been nice.

For long minutes he just lay there, looking around the room at his few possessions and mentally thanking whoever had the foresight to pull the blinds. It was probably Lotsu, and he had to wonder why she hadn't knocked him out or shut him up either. Maybe the two of them thought it best that he work out whatever was in his system, without quite knowing what it was. If they hadn't known before now that he was Cetra, and from the looks Lotsu had been giving him for the few days prior to this one he'd been pretty sure she'd figured it out, they certainly knew now. And Amoret… well, if he saw her again he'd definitely offer up an apology.

He was still in bed when someone knocked on the door, and didn't bother telling them if they could or couldn't come in. Maybe if he didn't say anything, whoever it was would just leave him alone.

But it was not to be. The door opened, and as Tyrael turned from the light with a wince Lotsu and Osrik stepped into the room. From the tight look on Osrik's face, it was obvious that his mind was made up about something, and it didn't take him long to say what it was, "We're going back to see the BlackFrost, Tyrael. Get dressed."

"I could have done that without you here," Tyrael groaned, holding his head. "What's the point of going back there if we don't know anything about the captives?"

"This isn't about the captives," Osrik snapped. "We're taking you to them and leaving you there."

"…what?"

"Word travels, Tyrael." Lotsu was much calmer as she moved about the room and collected Tyrael's things, making it pretty clear that it was her idea, "It won't be long before the town guard comes looking for you. Especially since Trompart is now offering a reward for all Cetra and Cetra supporters found within the city's walls."

"I'm staying," was his stubborn response. "I'd be of no help if I turned tail and fled. If they capture me, I can find out about the other Cetra."

"And probably be put to death before that information could be transferred to anyone else," Osrik bit back, still in a foul mood. "My gods, I hate this city."

Seeing that he wouldn't be allowed to go back to sleep, Tyrael tossed off the blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing when the world tilted at an unfamiliar angle. Once he was steady again, he stood, taking his clothes from Lotsu, "What happened after I was knocked out?"

"Osrik brought you here, straight away." Lotsu turned around to give him some privacy, "Amoret took a while to calm down. She was quite stung that you were talking to her like that."

"She'll get over it."

The words hung heavily in the air, as no one particularly wanted to add to them. There was a possibility, though it seemed unlikely, that Amoret's whole story was a façade and she was actually in place to root out Cetra and their supporters while the fair was on. It would be a strategy beyond Trompart's construction, but still a possible one. One of the only things that made the possibility unlikely was the excitement with which she'd spoken of the Materia, and as Tyrael finished dressing he thought about what he'd discovered.

"Have you two ever heard of something called Materia?" They both shook their heads, and he went back to collecting his things, "Make sure it stays that way, at least until this whole thing with the Cetra at the gates is behind us."

It only took a few minutes for his bags to be packed, and they descended the stairs in a quiet, orderly fashion. A few of the other mercenaries were still in the tavern section of the Pack Chokey, passed out from the night before and too heavy for the barkeeper to lift. A couple of early-morning postmen were scattered amongst them, giving the snoring and foul-smelling mercenaries a wide berth. Tyrael only recognized one of the postmen, who waved before going back to his meal. All the others were fresh faces, and he reasoned to himself that Zalbez had needed to hire new posties to replace all the ones currently locked up on charges of Cetra status.

"Your chocobo is ready to go," Osrik told him as they stepped out onto the street. "We'll ride out into the canyon and then—"

"HALT!"

They halted. Ranging before them were five mounted city guards, and even as they stood there another came up behind them and prodded the tip of his spear into Tyrael's back, "Tyrael Whitehall, you stand charged of spreading Cetra propaganda and making inflammatory and false statements about Humans and the People of Hume. You will be taken to the City Hall, there to await your sentence."

"This is preposterous!" Osrik blustered, gripping the shaft of the man's spear and tugging it away from Tyrael, "Tyrael is one of the ambassadors charged by Trompart—"

"That entire job was a ruse, nothing more," the guard sneered. "And I would suggest, _mercenary_, that you stay out of this. Unless, of course, you were sheltering this treasonous dog and want to share in his fate?"

"Why you—"

"Osrik." Tyrael took a step away from the irate man and glanced up at him, "Don't bother. They have nothing to convict me except the same superstition that's led them to arrest others."

The look on Osrik's face indicated that he clearly didn't believe him, especially considering that they'd been in the process of moving Tyrael out of the city, but there was nothing he could do about it short of starting a bloody brawl in the street. Resigned but angry, Osrik released the guard's spear and stepped back, deliberately blocking the guards' view of Lotsu. The last thing he wanted was for the leaders of Hume to suddenly decide that all Wutaiians were also guilty of consorting with Cetra.

The guard propped his spear against the door frame, and after removing Tyrael's weapons he used the butt of his spear to jab Tyrael between the shoulder blades, "Get moving."

Tyrael stumbled forward, but caught himself before he fell. To say that accused was not convicted didn't seem a particularly useful thing to say at the moment, not without weapons and flanked by battle chocobo. His own black bird gave a concerned wark from where it was tethered, and the only thing that stopped the guards from taking it as well was the presence of Zalbez, who glared daggers at every one of them.

/

It wasn't a direct trip to the cell. Fortunately for Tyrael, the guards didn't know with absolute certainty that he was a Cetra, so he was spared the pain of an iron brand to the arm for now, but they still bound his wrists and moved him through the city at a pace that had him jogging to keep up with. It was clear, though they didn't express the desire on their faces, that they wanted him to fall so they could drag him a little. He wasn't far from winded when they arrived at the City Hall, and again, they yanked the rope to make him trip up the steps. Once again he disappointed by keeping his feet, but they weren't done with him yet.

Tyrael had known, of course, that the City Hall had a basement. He was simply unprepared for how far down it went, how large it was, and what exactly it was used for; he was now finding out the answer to all three. Upon reaching the stairs to the basement, two guards held his arms while a third stripped him of his jacket, gloves, belt, and anything they thought he could use to escape. That apparently meant everything but his undershirt and his pants, and though he struggled to keep his boots on the guards removed them, too.

There was no time to react to what came next. He knew Hume, and he knew the guards felt cheated for not managing to scratch him up on the way, but it didn't occur to him that two would shove while the other swept his legs out from under him. Even as he fell down the stairs, protecting his head with his arms and curling his fingers and toes to prevent breaks as much as possible, the guards slammed the door. There was no time to consider the possibility of escape, however, for as soon as he came to a bruised rest at the base of the stairs, another guard was gripping him by the hair at the back of his head and pulling him back to his feet, a dagger resting against the base of his neck.

Whoever was in charge of building down here hadn't bothered to even out the floor before installing cheap-quality tiles, and as the guard shoved him towards a cell the cracked flooring scratched at the soles of his feet and caused him to wince. He could barely see, as the only torch was set far back by the guard's table, and his eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness. Only when the cell door had banged behind him, and the padlock was fitted and clanked closed, did he begin to see the others around him.

Most of them lay disturbingly still. A few were rocking back and forth, but aside from him no one else was standing. A dry cough from the cell off to his left assured him that at least someone else down here was still alive, but his skin was beginning to crawl the more his vision sharpened and he saw how thin most of those around him looked. In the back corner of his cell lay someone with a 'C' burned onto her shoulder, and when he stepped closer and knelt down he recognized her as one of the four women who'd been dragged through the streets weeks ago. Tyrael placed a hand on her neck, but it was icy with death. He couldn't draw his hand back fast enough, but in his shuffle to get away from the corpse his heel caught on a jagged tile and he fell onto his back, his head landing on a back as cold as the woman's neck.

A yell that mixed pain, shock and bewilderment tore from his throat, and he was finally able to scramble away from the bodies he shared a cell with. They were all dead. The council of Hume hadn't just imprisoned all the Cetra beneath the ground with no intent of releasing them; they hadn't provided food or water. The appearance of the bodies and the lack of plates or mugs was proof enough of that. To make matters worse, the guard on duty appeared to have an entire banquet laid out in front of him.

Tyrael looked around at the other cells, desperate to find the source of that cough. He wished the damned guard would leave, but it appeared the Council was taking no chances of the Cetra communicating. Even now, the guard was watching Tyrael with a wary eye, no doubt suspicious as to what he was thinking. With a heavy breath out, Tyrael picked his way carefully back to the body in the back corner, wondering if it would give him the cover he needed. He knelt once more, ostensibly to check on the woman, and began tugging some of the tiles free of the ground.

Usually he didn't mind overly much that he couldn't summon a mass amount of the lifestream to the surface, but now he wished more than anything that Cid was here with him. She could pull all the lifestream he needed, and he could get a message out to the BlackFrost. Instead, he took his time moving and stacking the tiles, and slowly began working his fingers under the soil. This far under the ground, the dirt held none of the warmth from the surface, despite the summer sun blazing above. It was cold, lifeless earth, and he had to swallow the despair rising in his throat. His knowledge of the lifestream, compared to the average Cetra, was poor; it was what came with wandering alone and picking up what he knew from experience, instead of by tales from a clan elder.

Once his hand had disappeared into the soil, leaving only his wrist exposed, Tyrael closed his eyes and willed the lifestream to the surface. It was like commanding the ocean tide to rise before it was ready. Nothing happened save for the ground's coldness seeping into his hand and making the joints of his fingers ache, but he was resolved not to give up. Giving up meant more waiting on the part of the BlackFrost, and more time for the Hume to rally and put up a decent defensive front.

"Hey, you."

Tyrael blinked, and looked over his shoulder at the guard, "What?"

"Don't you talk to me all high-handed like that, scum. What are you doing?"

"Paying my respects to a woman who probably hasn't done a thing wrong in her life."

The guard spat, "She was a Cetra. That's wrong enough."

Tyrael felt his jaw tighten, but before he could snap at the guard someone else beat him to it, "Go to hell."

The voice was cracked and clearly desperate for water, and the guard responded to the jibe by sauntering over to the front of another cell, swinging a canteen by its strap, "Look at you, sayin' something for the first time in days. Think you're tough?"

"Tougher'n you, you fat bastard. G'won, open this door an' test me."

Tyrael fully expected the guard to take him up on the offer, but to his surprise the man just spat through the bars and proceeded to take a deep drink of the canteen's contents. He spat again, clearly aiming for the troublemaker but missing. He might have tried a third time, if the door at the top of the stairs hadn't opened and another guard called down, "Council's meeting. Get up here."

The guard was still clumping his way up the stairs when Tyrael heard shuffled movements from two cells over and a gruff, "Psst. Hey, pal. You one'a Zalbez's boys?"

"Yeah." Tyrael kept his voice down, removing his hand from the soil and moving to the bars. Not surprisingly, most of the gruff man's face was obscured by dirt and hair, and Tyrael had to wonder just how long the man had been down here. Or what he was drawing strength from. "I ran the mountain-river, and switched to the Hume-desert route a couple of weeks ago. Who are you?"

"Jaymond. Used to run that same route; Hume-desert."

"_Jay_?" Tyrael remembered calling Jaymond a meatbag, and felt a little embarrassed about it, "You've been missing for almost two months! Zalbez thought you'd run off or got shot by a Cetra!"

"Like shit 'e did." Jaymond summoned up saliva with immense difficulty, and managed to spit, "Zalbez turned me in. On charges of _bein'_ Cetra."

"What?"

"S'my own fault, I guess," Jaymond wheezed out a chuckle. "Came into the stables while I was in the middle 'o communin'. Had a flower the size 'o my chocobo growin' in front'a me. Kinda obvious."

"You… you're a Cetra?" Tyrael blinked. He knew some of the posties who were Cetra, and guessed that a few of the others were better at concealing their identities, but he would never, _never_ have pegged Jaymond for one of his own. He realized he hadn't given his own name, and cleared his throat with an ease that the other man must have envied, "I'm Tyrael, I don't know if you…"

"Ty-boy." Jaymond chuckled again, and Tyrael had to wonder if it was because now that the man had started, he couldn't get his vocal cords to stop. Or perhaps he didn't want to for fear they'd never start again, "The hell'd you stay outta here for so long? Ridin' around on that damned black bird 'o yours an' lettin' that bronzy hair grow. That right there's a miracle."

Tyrael was still too stunned to be talking normally. This was Jaymond; drunkard, balding, wenching Jaymond. He had no idea what clan the Cetra belonged to, or perhaps formerly belonged to, but he didn't want to find out in case the answer was WhiteHill. Finally, he managed to ask, "You've met Cid?"

"Ha!" Jaymond's exclamation was followed by a burst of dry-throated coughing, and when it cleared he groaned a little before continuing, "Yeah, I've met Cid. Little spitfire, she is. Made a comment on 'er hind-side an' she almost ran me down with 'er ship."

There was an irate sigh, and it took a moment for both men to realize that it hadn't come from either of them. Before they could look around, a peevish voice spoke up, "Can't let us drift off to die in peace, can you?"

"Nope!" Jaymond looked for the speaker among the bodies in the cell between him and Tyrael, "Where are ya?"

A hand raised limply into the air as the man quipped, "Right here. Now that you've found me, what are you going to do with me?"

Jaymond snorted, but made no response. It was Tyrael who asked, "Are you Cetra as well?"

"No." The man grumped, "They dragged me down here because I thought I'd protest the treatment of some Cetra women who were branded."

Tyrael could feel the need to act welling inside of him, and hoped that Jaymond would say something and take control. He didn't want to do it, it had been such a disaster last time…

"We need to figure out who's still alive down here, and if there are any more Cetra." Tyrael didn't know how much they'd heard about what was happening outside, but decided that it probably wasn't much, "There's an entire Cetra army camped on the mountains of the Pass, and if we can get word to them there's a very good chance we can get out of here."

Interested despite himself, the man in the middle cell started crawling around and checking the vital signs of the others thrown in with him. They didn't have much time, and Tyrael only hoped that he could explain his plan before the guard returned.

/

Their findings were both devastating and disappointing. The only other one alive was an older woman, and she was human. Her crime was in selling herbs, and being mistaken for some kind of Cetra mage. The only reason she was still alive, she admitted, was that she'd managed to smuggle in a few canteens of water and had drunk sparingly, keeping her water to herself even when others began to expire from thirst. She was in the cell on the other side of Tyrael, and while they didn't exactly ignore her after she confessed her status and her reason for life, they weren't overtly friendly to her either, especially when Tyrael saw a 'C' burned onto the shoulder of most of her deceased cellmates.

Due to the presence of only one other Cetra, Tyrael needed to adjust his strategy. Keeping a sharp ear and eye out for the return of the guard, he instructed the human male to pull the bodies of his cellmates into a low wall. He and Jaymond also arranged their cellmates into a barrier, and after sending out a silent prayer and thanks to the departed, Tyrael detailed his plan. Jaymond didn't question why it was that he would be the only one pulling the lifestream, which almost made Tyrael all the more nervous. He didn't want to be the only one with a plan, and an uncontested one at that.

Once they began, it was the human male—who refused to give his name—who was set to keep watch for the guard, along with the woman. For his part, Jaymond pulled tiles from the floor as Tyrael had done and began to summon the lifestream. A mass of bright green mist began to swirl from the dirt, causing the human man to scamper backwards with wide eyes. For all that he'd defended Cetra, he clearly wasn't aware of what exactly separated Cetra from humans. He was now getting a basic lesson.

Tyrael waited for enough of the lifestream to mass, and then reached out with his senses and caught at the edge of it. Instead of a direct pull on it, he spent a few minutes convincing the lifestream to flow along the floor of the cells towards him. The carefully laid bodies kept the view of the lifestream from the guard, if and when he returned, unless the man walked right over to the cells and pressed his face against the bars. It took another minute or two to dull the glow of the lifestream, though it wouldn't go away altogether, and Tyrael could only hope that the guard wouldn't question the slightly greenish tinge to the room too much. With any luck a new guard would go on shift, and fail to recognize any difference whatsoever.

Finally the lifestream reached him, and Tyrael pulled loose another tile to thread the lifestream back into the soil. He knew that to the two humans watching, the process appeared redundant, and as far as contacting an outside source he supposed it was, at least for the time being. Instead of sending the lifestream towards the BlackFrost sentries immediately, Tyrael looped it back around and under the ground to where Jaymond was calling it. He felt, rather than saw, the other Cetra's surprise at the sudden surge of lifestream to the surface, and repressed the smile threatening to appear on his face; it was too early to smile. This was, however, a necessary step. Tyrael couldn't depend on Jaymond's ability to call on the lifestream indefinitely, not with the other man so weakened, and there was nothing the lifestream liked so much as circuits. Instead of draining away back into the core, it continued to circulate long after Jaymond had taken away his hands and stopped calling it.

"Damn, Ty-boy, I can't do that."

"Well, I can't call it to the surface, so there you are," Tyrael muttered. He got up briefly, stepping back to the corner with the disturbed earth, and dug his hand back into the soil. It was infinitely easier to coax the lifestream over to where he was, thanks to the newly-created circuit, and once that was done he began the tedious process of guiding the lifestream out of the dungeon and towards the mountain.

It was hard to say, exactly, how he knew where the boundary of Hume ended and the mountain began. He certainly hadn't memorized the exact measurements of the town, but the longer he spent in contact with the lifestream the more he became aware of what was around him. Off to the left was a recognized-yet-different pulse, which he eventually recognized as Amoret's Materia display. It was somewhat jarring to realize that when he sensed his own body, he was sensing it as if it were a good distance behind him, but he made no attempt to open his eyes.

Tyrael was expecting to eventually find his way to the BlackFrost camp. What he _wasn't_ expecting was for something to reach out and grab him, drawing him through the earth at an accelerated speed. For a moment he fought against it, before he felt another familiar presence. It was warm, reassuring almost, and he eventually let it guide him more gently until a pressure around him that he hadn't know was there disappeared. This was bizarre, and it only continued to get more so.

…_how did…_

…_new stream…_

…_doing in Hume…_

…_survivors…_

…_doubt it…_

…_Linnea…_

That last had a hint of consternation to it, and Tyrael took a guess at what had happened. Much like Jaymond had called the lifestream and Tyrael had manipulated it, one of the BlackFrost scouts must have sensed a new strand of lifestream meandering towards the mountains and correctly guessed that it wasn't doing it on its own.

_Linnea?_

There was unnerving silence for a moment.

…_WhiteHill?_

He wasn't used to communicating in this way, and it unnerved him. As much as it was his plan, he'd made it under the assumption that at least one other Cetra would be alive who was used to it. Neither he nor Jaymond were.

_Linnea, we're in… they…_

Much as he wanted to tell her what was going on, he was suddenly taken with the desire to keep exploring with the lifestream. This was new, and unknown, and he felt like he could spend days lost in the depths of it, forging new streams and connecting with—

_Tyrael._

This was not Linnea's voice, and Tyrael jerked his attention back to it.

_Yes?_

_Stop wandering, boy. What is it?_

_It's… now wait, what was it…? Something. It was… something. What's this here? I can answer in a minu—_

_TYRAEL._

_Yes?_

_For Gaia's sake, he's getting overwhelmed._

_He's what?_

You_, Tyrael, are being overwhelmed by the lifestream._

_Am I?_

_YES. Why are you trying to communicate with us?_

_I… _

_Does it have anything to do with the Cetra prisoners?_

_I'm a Cetra prisoner._

_You… you were taken captive?_

_Was, yes. Am. Still. Just me and Jaymond and a few humans but this one woman was selfish and let Cetra die and the man I don't know if we can trust but we have to because we don't really—_

_Tyrael. Answer with a number. How many of the prisoners, including you, are alive?_

_Four._

More silence followed, but as much as Tyrael got impatient and tried to wander off he couldn't. Someone was holding the lifestream where it was, and he suddenly felt tempted to try and wiggle backwards to the loop he'd created in the prison. If he went back there, he could go down the path where Jaymond had called the stream, and he imagined that there were dozens of trails _that_ path led to.

_Tyrael, listen carefully._

_Yes,yes._

_Don't sound so impatient, and DON'T go floating off down the lifestream when we're done talking. The BlackFrost are mobilizing, understand? We WILL come for you. I need you to—_

What cut the clan leader off wasn't an interruption from another Cetra. Tyrael felt something grip his shoulder and wrench him around, and the abrupt severing from the lifestream left him reeling. Outlined against the bright glow of the lifestream was a guard, different from the one before, and the man hauled Tyrael to his feet by his hair once more. It was almost enough to make Tyrael want to shave his head.

He was dragged from his cell, his vision still swimming, and when it became obvious that he wasn't able to stand on his own another guard came over and the two of them held him up. His head was wrenched backwards, forcing him to look at the man standing before him. Tyrael had to give Trompart a little credit; he hadn't expected the man to have the guts to come down into the dungeon and stand near so many corpses. Perhaps if his senses weren't still recovering, he would have noticed how disgusted and unsettled the councilman was to be here.

"You vile spawn," Trompart spat. "You thought you could actually stay in Hume, reviled _creature_ that you are? You thought that you could fool the council and the city guard as to what your true status is? _Cetra_."

Tyrael shook his head, the fuzziness finally fading away. He found his feet and stood straight, looking down on Trompart with disdain, "Your close-minded nature is the only reviled thing I see present."

"Silence!" Trompart puffed himself up and turned to one of the guards with a small nod. The guard immediately kicked Tyrael's legs out from under him, and his knees banged painfully into the tiled floor. If Trompart was hoping for Tyrael to cry out, however, he was sadly disappointed. "I suppose that your high and mighty opinion makes you think that you're entitled to a public execution. An example for the rest of the lurking Cetra in the streets of Hume."

Tyrael looked up with a wince, but his gaze wasn't on the indignant councilman. Instead, it travelled over Trompart's shoulder to the man Tyrael had encountered in the main hall yesterday. Who _was_ he? He stood casually, arms folded and shoulder braced against the wall, but when he caught Tyrael looking at him he eased back and into the shadows, obscuring his face.

"But you won't!" Trompart blustered, irritated that the prisoner was paying him so little regard, "You will never leave this dungeon, Cetra. You will die down here, and your corpse will serve as a warning to all future prisoners of Hume."

"It's a good plan," Tyrael switched his attention back to Trompart, "but flawed."

Trompart glowered at him, "What lies are you spewing?"

Tyrael indicated the glow of the lifestream with a tip of his head, "That. The lifestream is here to stay, and any future Cetra you throw down here will disregard the fear they feel over the bodies in favour of the comfort and strength they draw from the stream. I suggest you dig yourself a new dungeon."

If there was any fury on Trompart's face before, it paled in comparison to what was there now. He glared from Tyrael to the lifestream, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly as he tried and failed to think of something to shout. From the top of the stairs came the sound of shouting, and shortly after a young boy who was obviously a messenger of some sort came running down the stairs.

"Lord Trompart!" The boy was gasping for air, and had clearly been running for quite some time, "Lord Trompart, the Cetra are attacking! They're all coming down the mountain in a big, black wave! I've never seen anything like it! What's going to happen to us?"

Trompart paled, and stared at the boy, "Wh-what? But the rest of our forces haven't arrived yet!"

"Should have negotiated in good faith," Tyrael put in. The shattered tiles beneath his knees were digging into his skin, and a warm, wet feeling let him know that both knees were bleeding. "Did you honestly expect them to wait around until your armies were—"

With more strength than Tyrael had expected, Trompart backhanded him across the face, leaving a cut from one of his rings, "Silence! I will not be told the etiquette of negotiation from a scum-of-the-earth Cetra! You!" He turned and looked at the man standing halfway up the staircase, "Go and organize the battle positions! It doesn't matter that we aren't at full strength, we'll butcher them all in the name of Hume!"

The man nodded and climbed the stairs, and the frightened boy went after him. Clearly he'd rather stay with the one in charge of positioning the troops than the blustering coward in the dungeon. Tyrael didn't blame him. The guards holding him looked at each other, before one cleared his throat and spoke to Trompart, "What about this one? Throw him back in his cell?"

"Yes." Trompart turned to go, then blinked and turned back to them, "Wait."

The councilman wasn't armed, but his guards were, and even as Tyrael struggled to get back to his feet Trompart drew a sword from the left guard's scabbard and glared at Tyrael, "There will be no rescue for you, Cetra."

Tyrael's desperate attempt to pull free was cut short as Trompart rammed the sword through him.

/\\\End Chapter/\\\


	7. Avalanche of Frost

Avalanche of Frost

Amoret wandered into the Pack Chokey Pub, wondering if Tyrael would be there so she could talk to him. She'd thought about the conversation they'd had the night before, and while he'd been quite rude towards the end, she was willing to admit that she'd touched on a sensitive subject, and should have been more careful. Throughout the morning she'd hardly said a word, listening instead to the conversations in the streets and realizing just how xenophobic the people of Hume were becoming. To think that she'd spent the previous day blathering about Cetra and how wonderful living together was, to anyone who would listen! It was lucky for her that she'd met someone who corrected her so quickly. Still, he didn't have to be _quite_ so rude to her.

The Pub was quiet this time of day, which she found unusual. It was midday, and while she knew that a lot of the town's residents would be out at the festival, she would have thought that at least some of them would take a break to get out of the mid-afternoon heat.

Never one to be shy, Amoret strolled over to the bartender with a look on her face that clearly said she had a question. He raised an eyebrow at her, but when he didn't say anything she went ahead and asked, "I'm looking for Osrik Tyrael. Is he here?"

The bartender blinked. First she'd asked for Osrik, now she wanted to talk to Osrik Tyrael? He cleared his throat, "Which one you be wantin'? Osrik or Tyrael?"

Amoret blinked right back at him, "It's the same person. First name Osrik, last name Tyrael."

"Well, I've never met him then. I know an Osrik Asakura, and a Tyrael Whitehall, but I've never had an Osrik Tyrael in my pub." He watched the girl's eyes narrow, and added, "Sorry."

"He told me the wrong name. The first time we met." Amoret crossed her arms, "I want to speak with Tyrael WhiteHill."

"Whitehall."

"Whatever. Him. Where is he?" So, it looked like Os—Tyrael was using fake names all the time. Whitehall? What did he take her for, an idiot? She was a Zolemian; a third of her _city_ had the last name WhiteHill.

"Not here." The bartender shrugged, "I'd try the post office. Maybe he was sent out of town for a few days."

With an unnecessary flounce to her step, Amoret exited the building. Here she'd come to visit him, having waited all morning at her booth for him to stop by again, and he couldn't even stay in one spot! _Clearly_ the young men of the Central Continent didn't know much about being social. But then… if his last name was WhiteHill, that meant that he'd once lived by Zolema. How confusing.

A discordant bell dinged as she stepped into the post office, and she cast a glaring glance around the shop as if she expected him to just be sitting there waiting for her. For almost half a minute she waited there, until finally an excessively large man waddled out from some door and grinned at her through his day-old stubble. If this was the man Tyrael had as a role model, Amoret suddenly thought that he'd done quite well with himself, indeed.

"I'm looking for Tyrael."

The grin faded to a frown, and the man grumped, "Not here. Ty-boy was taken by the guards this morning, on charges of bein' Cetra."

"Oh! That's terrible!" Amoret's hands flew to her mouth as she thought about all the things Tyrael had said the night before. What if someone had overheard that? Or worse, what if he thought _she'd_ told? All her indignation at Tyrael's improper behavior went out the window as images of a dirty and chained Tyrael swam through her mind.

The man looked at her with suspicious eyes, "Terrible?"

"That they took him! Doesn't he work here? Don't you think it's terrible? They might _do_ things to him!" Why couldn't they have taken an uglier postman?

"Now look here, missie. If'n Ty-boy was taken as a Cetra, it means he's a Cetra. An' we don't like Cetra in this town. The council doesn't make mistakes."

"Oh, poo on the guards and the council too! Everyone makes mistakes!" Amoret stomped her foot and turned for the door, "I'm going over there right now to tell them they're being ridiculous!"

She was still a few feet from the door when the ground started to shake, and for a moment she thought that the gigantic man was coming after her to stop her. Amoret turned to tell him off, but he hadn't moved. It seemed unnecessary to ask, especially when letters were starting to fall off the shelves from the shaking, but she asked it anyway, "Do you feel that?"

"We've never had an earthquake before…" He frowned at the continuous shaking, and as it suddenly intensified he slapped both palms on the counter to steady himself.

Amoret had no counter to steady herself, but she also had no intention of staying in the post office. Buildings were what killed people, and she wanted to get outside before one of the massive shelves with parcels fell on her. Her hand was on the door handle when the rumbling grew again, but the view through the large window pane was enough to stop her from opening the door. Black chocobo were everywhere, and each one carried an armed and armored rider. They were swarming the streets, and any people who stood in their way were either cut down or trampled.

Even as she watched, Amoret saw one of the riders look to the post office, and through the window at her. He raised his spear in the air, spinning it in a tight circle, and four more riders formed up on either side of him. Despite being a Cetra supporter, Amoret scrambled away from the door. These Cetra were _not_ in the mood for discussing the difference between an allied human and a human foe.

"Back here, girl, quick!" The man waved her towards the desk, and once she'd tripped her way behind it he stepped forward and put his shoulder into one of the bookshelves, toppling it and blocking the door. "Get something to brace it!"

"You mean _lift_ something?" Amoret didn't think she could lift anything in this dingy place, except… oh, this letter was addressed to one of her school friends! From the young man her friend had sworn she was no longer in contact with! In any other situation, she would have giggled. Almost as an unconscious reaction she tucked the envelope into her satchel, next to her Materia.

"_Get your arse moving or we're dead!_" The man was lugging a smaller shelf over to support the first, but by this time the riders had reached the post office. Rather than dismount their chocobos and attempt to enter on foot, the first two riders simply urged their birds through the window, the metal helmets on each mount protecting them from cuts as the window shattered.

Amoret screamed and dove under the desk. She heard the man shouting something that sounded like 'Cetra scum', which under the circumstances she couldn't help but think was not only inappropriate but stupid. Then came a noise that she'd only ever heard once before, and that was when she'd gone on a trip to a small town and witnessed a cow being butchered for its meat. With a whimper, she tucked her arms around her legs and planted her forehead against her knees, rocking back and forth slightly.

"Do you feel that?" The voice was new, and definitely belonged to one of the riders, but Amoret didn't dare to wonder what they were talking about.

"The lifestream… but not." Another spoke, the frown evident in his voice.

"You don't think that woman…"

"She's under the desk. Get her."

Amoret understood that well enough, and scrambled out from under the desk. She wasn't familiar with the post office, but as she tripped to her feet she saw a back door and ran for it. A few shouts went up from behind her, but she was out the door and running, tears streaming down her face. Then, all too soon, her escape hit a wall. Literally. Amoret rebounded off the wooden surface and staggered backwards, the smell of manure coming to her nose. A stable?

Not having time to be choosy, and not fully understanding that the Cetra could follow her because of whatever they were feeling, she ran inside and ducked into the first stall she encountered.

"Where'd she go?"

"Do another connection with the lifestream, we…"

"There's not enough time," the third voice rang with authority. "If she's Cetra, she'll find her own way out. If she's not, another party will find her sooner or later. Keep moving."

Amoret almost fainted on the spot, but was prevented from doing so by a beak poking her in the middle of her back. She swallowed a shriek and spun around, staring wide-eyed at the black chocobo in front of her. It didn't look anything like the hostile birds swarming through the city. In fact, it kind of looked cute.

"Um, hello."

"Wark!" It fluffed its feathers at her, nuzzling her bag.

Amoret looked down, a bit of a guilty feeling passing over her. It probably smelled the letter, "There's nothing in there for you, birdie. Just um… be quiet, okay?"

"Wark!"

"Shhh!" She put her hands on its beak, noticing as she did so that it was already tacked up and ready to go. Amoret had never really ridden a chocobo by herself, though back at the university it was common for the boys to take girls out for rides in an attempt to woo them, but she reasoned that it couldn't be that terribly difficult. This thought in mind, she grabbed one of the chocobo's reins and started pulling it towards the other exit of the stable. There were so many black chocobo racing through the streets right now, that surely the hostile Cetra wouldn't notice one more even if it was carrying someone without armor.

Once they were outside, Amoret tried to pull herself up onto the chocobo's back. She was used to someone boosting her, and only realized after her second attempt that she should try to use the stirrup. It took a lot of leaning and standing on tiptoe to get her foot up high enough, but then when she tried to pull herself up she discovered that she didn't have the arm strength. By now, the chocobo was looking at her like she was quite the strange girl, indeed. Amoret puffed her cheeks, then let the breath out in a frustrated sigh. A quick scan of the area brought to her attention a stack of boxes, and she tugged the bird over to them. One inelegant hop later, and she was sprawled across the chocobo's back.

"Okay, wait a minute…" Her dress wasn't working for her in this situation, and after wiggling around into the right position she had to take a few moments to readjust her skirts. Finally, she was ready to go. She gave the chocobo a little kick, but it didn't budge, "Oh come on! There's a city-wide slaughter going on and we need to get out of here!"

The chocobo looked over its shoulder at her, down at the pack strapped to the front of its saddle, and back at her, "Wark?"

Taking the hint, Amoret opened the pack and looked inside. There wasn't much, just a matching pair of ratty old postmen's caps and some papers. Unless… it wanted her to wear one of those, didn't it? Amoret sighed and took the smaller of the two hats out, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she set it on her head. The chocobo gave a wark of approval, and leaned its head closer to her so she could place the other cap on it.

"You know this is ridiculous. I shouldn't even be making my own escape. There's supposed to be a dashing young man to plan all that _for_ me." Amoret put the cap on the bird's head, and then gave it a kick, "Let's go, bird!"

/

Amoret didn't know it, but she was in a section of town that was relatively calm. Osrik and Lotsu, on the other hand, were in the village square and deep in the middle of the violence. Once Tyrael was taken from them, Osrik had tried and failed to find Trompart. After that, he'd gone into the thick of the enlightened thinkers to try and find support against the council of Hume. More than a few were in agreement that the speculated treatment of the Cetra was terrible, but they weren't willing to do anything about it until they had proof that Osrik's claims were true. He'd looked for Amoret, thinking that perhaps she could add her voice to his, but her stall was closed up.

Another difference between the people in the square and those in the post office was that Osrik and the others had five minutes' warning before the Cetra attacked. It started with a casual observer looking up at the mountains, and noticing the beginnings of what appeared to be a pitch black avalanche. More and more people turned to see, and as the rumbling started and they realized what it was the screams and panic started. Guards started to form up, bracing against the imminent attack and leaving the citizens to find their own way. Osrik joined the line, not wanting to attack the Cetra but unable to simply find shelter himself and let them attack innocent people. Lotsu was beside him, as much as he wanted her to hide, and several other mercenaries formed up with him. There would be no pay in this, but the alternative was slaughter.

When the first wave of Cetra hit, it knocked most of the guards over. The giant warbirds had no hesitation ramming headfirst into a line of weapons and armored men, and amidst the confusion left by their charge their riders began to attack. Osrik was one of the only men who stood his ground, due in part to his massive size, and by sidestepping behind him Lotsu was able to avoid being trampled.

More than one of the Cetra riders hesitated from attacking Osrik, recognizing him as one of the ambassadors who sympathized with their cause, but most of the riders present had a crest different than that of the BlackFrost, and Osrik realized with a curse that other Frost clans had joined in and thought only of vengeance for the fallen members of their clan. He parried a jab from a spear, and stepped forward with a swing of his axe, taking the rider clear off his chocobo.

"Osrik!" Lotsu grabbed hold of the chocobo's reins, momentarily free of the skirmish, "We can't stay here! The Cetra are overpowering the guards and they won't listen to reason!"

"I've noticed!" Osrik sidestepped a jab from a chocobo's sharpened beak, gritting his teeth, "What could have set them off like this?"

"I don't know, but we—" Her voice was cut off as a fresh wave of mounted Cetra arrived in the square, forcing everyone into closer quarters. They went back to fighting, trying to stay as close together as they could. The Cetra's strategy, and it was an effective one, was to wedge their chocobo between their enemies and then surround them on all sides and attack with their spears. So far, the Hume guards and soldiers hadn't found a way to counter the maneuver.

It wasn't long before the pair found more and more Cetra engaging them, which could only mean that they were two of the last humans left alive in the square. Knowing that they couldn't last much longer, Osrik shoved his way through the attackers to Lotsu's side, and together they backed up against one of the walls. It wouldn't buy them much time, but at least they didn't have to worry about being attacked from all sides. A circle of mounted Cetra was closing in around them, but just outside of spear-length the circle stopped, and one of the riders lifted his spear to address them.

"You are not Hume." This was said to Lotsu, whose eyes narrowed. "What is a woman from Wutai doing here, in this pit of a place?"

"We were working as the ambassadors between Hume and the Cetra," Lotsu straightened a little, ignoring the concerned look her husband gave her when she lowered her weapon. "It was our intent to find out where the Cetra prisoners were being kept, and attempt to free them. Our comrade Tyrael was arrested this morning on charges of being Cetra. We wish only to find him."

The man turned his head, watching one of the others in the circle whose chocobo wore the BlackFrost crest. At the rider's nod, he looked back at her, "We want the Hume leader's head. Let us call a truce and seek him out. Your friend Tyrael can wait."

Osrik started to puff himself up, but Lotsu placed a comforting hand on his arm, "Agreed. Are we to walk?"

No verbal answer was given, but two riderless chocobo were brought for them. As they were mounting up, Osrik muttered, "We can't just abandon Tyrael. And these people were just trying to kill us. I don't trust them."

"We're mercenaries, Osrik." Lotsu settled in her saddle and brought the bird into line, "We can't trust anyone. Don't forget that we were just killing their clan members."

Osrik's frown was massive as they formed up at the head of the Cetra formation and led them in the direction of the city hall, "This is why I hate war."

/

As chance would have it, Amoret was also heading towards the city hall, but not because she wanted to. The chocobo she was riding had quite apparently decided on the route it was taking, and no amount of tugging or tantrums could convince it otherwise. Only once did she come across a skirmish, and even though she dropped one rein to haul on the other and turn the stubborn bird around it kept going. Just when she thought that they would ride right through the fight, the chocobo gave a few fluttering jumps, and went from the ground, to the overhang of a door, to the rooftops. It was at this point that Amoret abandoned the reins altogether, and focused on clinging to the saddle.

Now that they were on top of the city, it became apparent where they were headed. Amoret didn't know what, exactly, the largest building was, but it was the chocobo's destination and no mistake about it. When they were two rooftops away, the chocobo stopped and looked over its shoulder at her. More as a reaction than anything else, Amoret gripped the saddle horn even tighter, and the chocobo immediately shot forward in a run.

She'd promised herself she wouldn't scream, but she couldn't help but let out a shriek as they leapt across a particularly wide gap and half-landed, half-fell onto the second floor of the big building. Amoret was thankful that the chocobo was sitting down, because she honestly didn't think she could dismount without falling. As it was, she toppled off its back and onto her side, where she stayed for a minute or two before getting her breath back and sitting up.

They'd come through an arch that would one day hold a window, and as she looked around the curving hallway they were in Amoret thought to herself that Zolema's buildings were far more beautiful. She stood up, her knees wobbling only a little, and the chocobo hauled itself to its feet behind her. Shooting it an irritated look, she snapped, "Well? Why'd you bring me here? We're supposed to be escaping!"

"Wark!" It raised its beak slightly and trotted off down the hallway, and she had no choice but to follow. As her footsteps echoed off the walls, she had to wonder why the guards weren't rallying to defend this place, but the continuous open arches on the outside wall gave her the answer to that question; it wasn't defensible. All the Cetra needed were a few dozen archers, and all of the defenders would be filled with arrows.

They were halfway down the stairs when a second wave of rumbling started, and Amoret clung to the chocobo's neck, "Now what?"

/

It hadn't taken long for Trompart to turn tail and flee, and the guards hadn't bothered throwing Tyrael back in his cell before following after him. Apparently no one wanted to be in the pit where the dead Cetra were when their living relatives arrived. Once the door slammed shut, the four survivors were left in darkness.

Jaymond shuffled to the front of his cell nervously, peering through it at Tyrael, "Ty-boy? Ty-boy, you still with me? Come on, say something."

For long minutes there was no response, until Tyrael finally summoned up the energy to cough. From the wet, slightly rasping sound that he made, it was obvious he'd coughed up blood. Jaymond reached up to the lock on his door, but unfortunately it picked the wrong time to be sturdy.

"We've got to get out of here." This was wailed by the woman in the far cell, who'd been rocking back and forth since Trompart arrived, "They won't find us down here! We're going to die!"

"You're just half-crazed since your water ran out," the human man rasped, before turning back to Jaymond. "Can't your lifestream do anything else? Break us out of here, maybe?"

Jaymond ignored him, focused instead on Tyrael, "Ty-boy!"

"Oh, for the love of Gaia, he's not going to make it!" The man snapped, "We need to think of a plan, not cry over dying people! The Cetra won't be in the city forever, and once the Hume get control of it again we'll never get out of here! Can you use the lifestream or not?"

Jaymond sent a glare at the human, but Tyrael wasn't responding and he could see the sense trying to use the lifestream to escape. The only problem was that he wasn't sure he had the skill, "Alls I can do is call the lifestream to the surface an' make flowers grow. If you think that'll help then by all means I'll do it!"

"What good _are_ you?"

"Hey, we got the Cetra down from the mountain, didn't we? S'better than what you did!"

_Jay._

Jaymond froze, looking down at the lifestream curling from the ground of his cell. He could have sworn… but it sounded more like Tyrael's voice was coming from his head? He stood up and peered through the darkness, barely catching sight of the thin strand of lifestream stretched across the ground to Tyrael's body.

"What is it, Ty-boy? Got a plan?"

"He's not _saying_ anything, you idiot."

"Shut it!"

_Lifestream… get the… tree… lock… wonder what happens when I go down this way so much to see._

Jaymond blinked. What… was Tyrael talking about? He tried again, "You wanna repeat that?"

_Treelockbreak. Now I can go down here and see where else it goes sounds like a good idea._

"Ah shit." Jaymond dropped back to his knees, but before he called to the lifestream he pointed at the human man, "You. Keep talking to him. The stupid kid's trying to float off down the lifestream."

"He… can do that?"

"TALK."

While the man made a stumbling attempt to keep talking to what he viewed as a corpse, Jaymond reconnected with the lifestream and brought it to the surface, conveying his wish without difficulty. It took a bit more effort to convince the lifestream that growing a tree under the ground was a good idea, but eventually the sapling broke the surface beneath the iron gate and began stretching its way upwards. When it hit the first iron cross-section there was a pause, and for a few seconds it continued to grow outwards without going up, but then the lifestream surged and the tree shot into the air, smashing the iron apart and continuing to grow.

A startled shout left Jaymond's mouth as he scrambled backwards, but even though he'd stopped directing the lifestream it was obvious that it intended its new tree to reach sunlight. The tree burst through the ceiling and continued to rise, leaving behind only a few leaves as its crown grew rapidly out of sight. While the human male was immediately distracted and watched the tree rise, Jaymond scrambled past its ever-widening trunk to Tyrael's side.

The boy was already starting to glow a pale green, and it wouldn't be long before the lifestream claimed him altogether. Jaymond grabbed Tyrael's shoulders and shook, "Come on, Ty-boy! Not your time to go yet. Leave it alone!"

Sections of ceiling were starting to fall around them from the tree's ascent, and Jaymond looked to the other prisoners, "Well? Come on, the tree's lifted the metal enough for you to crawl out. So crawl!"

The last few words of his sentence were obscured by a rapidly approaching scream, and he barely got his hands and head out of the way before a girl fell through the ceiling and landed, unfortunately, right on Tyrael's body. He stared at her, but before words could come to mind she wailed, "Why is there a giant tree? I thought I was going to die! I—"

Her put-upon speech was interrupted by a pained cough, and she blinked and looked down, "Tyrael! You caught me!" When he didn't respond, she tapped his nose, "Modest. Hey, why are you glowing?"

"He's _dying_, ya daft girl!" Jaymond pulled her off of Tyrael and pointed at the gaping hole in Tyrael's side, visible in the sunlight caused by the tree breaking through the roof and crumbling the building.

Amoret's eyes widened, and her hands went to her side and into her satchel. In short order she had a green Materia out, and nudged Jaymond out of the way. Overhead, the black chocobo was making indignant chirping noises, trying and failing to fit down the hole through which Amoret had fallen.

Once Amoret was in what she deemed to be the optimal position, she tucked her legs underneath her and clasped the Materia between her hands, her fingers lacing together over the top of it. For a moment nothing happened, but then a pale green glow came from her hands. It was paler than the lifestream, and gradually a small bloom of the same colour appeared over Tyrael's wound. It stayed even when the glow of the lifestream faded from him, but failed to get any larger.

Jaymond looked between the two in a mixture of wonder and concern. Blood was still pouring from Tyrael's side, and judging by the thickness of it the boy didn't have long to live. If she couldn't heal him, perhaps it was better that she let his soul merge with the lifestream. It seemed kinder.

From the small frown that appeared on Amoret's face, it was clear that she was trying her hardest to fix the ragged hole, but it was equally clear that in this case, her hardest wasn't good enough. That was until Tyrael sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth and raised his hand, clamping it down on top of both of hers. Amoret jumped a little, but even as she struggled to regain her focus the healing bloom on his side grew larger. Eventually she eased her hands apart, but instead of letting his hand touch the Materia directly, he slid it off to the side, keeping her hand between himself and the glowing sphere.

"What _is_ that thing?" Jaymond gaped at it.

Amoret didn't answer him; she was busy watching the colour come back to Tyrael's face. Once the wound on his side had closed over and healed, the green glow swirled briefly through his body, giving his skin an almost marbled effect. Then the glow was gone, and his hand dropped limply to the floor.

"Tyrael?" Amoret put the heal Materia off to the side and leaned over him, putting a hand hesitantly to his chest. He was breathing, she could feel that, and the deep breaths reassured her that his lungs weren't filled with blood any more. She just wished he would open his eyes or say something.

Not one to be overly patient about anything, Amoret took one of his shoulders in each hand and gave him a shake that started gently and gradually became more forceful. Finally he groaned, and she let him go, only to wince as the back of his head hit the tiles.

Cracking one eye open, he looked up at her with a grimace, "You'll be the death of me, I swear."

Jaymond chuckled at the insulted look on Amoret's face and helped Tyrael to his feet, "Good thing she kin heal you then, Ty-boy. S'good to have you back; now let's get out of here."

/\\\ End Chapter /\\\


	8. Eyes that Glow

_Sorry for the long hiatus. I'm back!_

_.  
_

Eyes that Glow

As the destruction of Hume and the humans within it continued, Linnea kept watch from the rocky mountainside overlooking the carnage in the streets. Above all, she felt an intense jealousy that she was relegated to observing instead of fighting, but Tyrael's words to her kept echoing unpleasantly in her head: _I suggest you don't lust for battle, Linnea. I certainly don't._

That may have been true, but look at where Tyrael's lack of battle lust had landed him. If she were him, Linnea would never have let the town guard take her in alive. She would have shown them the fighting prowess that even a BlackFrost without an Implement could bring to bear. The sight of fellow Frost clan members being taken from their mounts and slain did nothing to discourage her want to join the fight. They were dying for what they believed in.

A change in the horizon brought her eyes up from the town and to the distant hills. The undisturbed green had given way to a band of black. Not taking her eyes from the sight, Linnea nudged her chocobo toward another scout. They'd spaced themselves out for the simple reason that commiserating about being unable to join in the battle would only distract them from their unwanted, but still important, duty of scouting. Her fellow scout was scanning the battle, and didn't look away as he picked up her approach with his peripheral vision, "We should be down there."

"Agreed." Linnea nudged his calf with the toe of her boot, "Do you see that?"

He finally took his eyes from battle and focused on her, "See what?" When she didn't reply, he tracked her gaze and spotted the band on the horizon, "What do you think…?"

"Reinforcements." She'd wanted to make sure the line wasn't simply a trick of her eyes, but now that someone else saw what she did, Linnea was sure, "An army to support Hume. We'll have to pull back."

"We can take them!"

Linnea frowned, feeling his sentiment within her but forcing it away, "Not now. They're unexpected, and more used to moving in cities. Get the rest of the scouts together; we'll tap the lifestream and alert the others."

The return frown on his face was distinctly greater than hers, "I didn't think I'd see the day where you held back from riding into a battle at the first chance."

Turning her chocobo to ride to the other scouts on her side, Linnea paused to mutter, "Neither did I."

/

By the time Osrik, Lotsu, and the Cetra they rode with reached the city hall, the building was already under siege. Many of the city's guards, and the soldiers who'd been increasing with more frequency over the past few weeks, had left the rest of the humans to fend for themselves while they regrouped at the building and fought with all their strength to keep the Cetra out. This rallied the Cetra, as such a show of protective force could only mean that the city's councilmen were inside. To destroy them would be to cut the head from the xenophobic snake that was this way of life.

"I hate this kind of thing." Osrik dismounted from his chocobo, which looked askance at him. He didn't have time to pet its beak, and turned instead to Lotsu, "There's no order of battle. It's a city-wide skirmish and I'm not even sure which side I _should_ be on. The Hume kill Cetra, but the Cetra kill innocent scholars and learned men and women."

"It seems quite the mess," Lotsu agreed, taking her double-handed chakram from her back and flipping it once in a circle, testing the grip. Still good, "We aren't here to end a war, Osrik. We're here to rescue Tyrael."

There was more muttering from the muscled tower that was her husband, but it was unintelligible so she ignored it in favour of forming up alongside the Cetra. The Hume didn't appear to have any archers on the second floor, unusual to say the least, but perhaps their ranged defenders hadn't had time to get back to the hall from the outer walls. Many of the newly-arrived Cetra waited only until the majority of them were dismounted before rushing to support those already locked in combat, but Lotsu waited for Osrik to wade into the fray before following in his wake and cutting down those only injured by his passing.

The tide was swiftly turned in the Cetra's favour, but even as the first of them began to enter the hall a shout went up from the back as more Hume soldiers quick-marched around the corner of the street. Those Cetra still outside turned to engage, and Osrik hesitated for a few moments before turning his back to the city hall and stepping into the defensive line. Tyrael, wherever he was and whatever shape he was in, would just have to wait a little longer.

/

Their situation was less than ideal. Tyrael made a quick scan of the group and decided immediately that if they reached the top of the stairs and there were guards, all of them would die. They had no armour and no weapons; he'd questioned Amoret as to what the other Materia in her satchel were capable of, but she hadn't been able to tell him, much to both of their disappointment. She had offered them to him to find out, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to take that chance.

It was a slow process to move up the stairs and out of the dungeon. Irritated by the blood on his undershirt sticking to his healed side, Tyrael had removed the ruined garment and crept up the stairs in bare feet, holding the shirt in his hand. Jaymond was behind him, still weakened from his prolonged stay in the dungeon and just as weaponless, but eager to take a stand against the Hume. The human sympathizer, who'd chosen to withhold his name when asked, came next, followed by Amoret who was helping the older woman. Jaymond was sceptical about the other man's secrecy, but Tyrael reasoned that after this was done the man would probably want to retire to a small village and never have a Cetra bring up his name again for fear of another dose of Hume's hospitality. He didn't blame him.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Tyrael pressed his ear to the thick wood of the door, one hand on the knob. Sounds of battle were faint, but he wasn't sure if that was due to the distance of the fight or the door's materials. Acting on a gut instinct, and banking rather heavily on the fact that Amoret had the healing Materia, Tyrael opened the door and took a quick scan of the hallway. It was empty, save for the presence of one very relieved black chocobo who was peeking through the entrance of the stairwell to the second floor. The bird warked at him and trotted over, making sure he saw the hat it was wearing by head-butting him with it.

"Good for you." He couldn't truly be irritated at the bird, since he'd quietly berated it the last time they weren't wearing their hats, but now wasn't exactly the time. Already, echoes of fighting were reaching them from somewhere else in the building. Reins in hand, he placed a palm over his chocobo's beak and instructed, "Take the women out of here. Those two. Then come back for the others."

"You think you're going on by yourself, you got another thing comin'!" Jaymond's attempt at sounding valiant was almost entirely eclipsed by the fact that he was visibly swaying on the spot.

Before Tyrael could argue further, a deep rumbling came from down the stairs, and the building heaved upwards as the lifestream-driven growth of the tree continued. Multiple cracks and smashes could be heard as stonework and furniture broke apart, and with the exception of Tyrael all of the prisoners lost their footing. He was about to use their poor balance as a reason for them to leave, when he noticed that Amoret had also stayed on her feet. For some reason, that irritated him.

"Listen to me. You have to get out of here before the whole building breaks apart." He nodded to his chocobo, and it knelt down to allow Amoret and the old woman to climb aboard with less effort. The old woman went willingly enough, though she had to half-crawl to the bird's side, but Amoret looked stubborn. Before she could argue, Tyrael added, "Please, Amoret. I'm grateful that you healed me, but you need to go. Now."

Amoret hesitated only a little, glancing between him and the chocobo, before moving to it and climbing on behind the old woman. As the bird stood, Amoret fixed Tyrael with a haughty expression that was entirely out of place and declared, "You'd better not die on me, Tyrael WhiteHill."

"I wasn't planning on it. Go." This last was said to his chocobo, which chirped and took the few bounding steps to the window arch before leaping out to the street below. It stayed there for as long as it took to reach the buildings nearby, at which point it gave a fluttering hop and continued its run along the rooftops.

"So do we stay here?" The human male crept over to the window, his steps cautious in case the building gave another lurch, "It's not that long a drop. I say we risk it."

Tyrael glanced at him, "I suppose you could. There's no telling how far you'd make it before a Cetra spotted you, though."

"I have no problem with the Cetra!"

"It's not you I'm talking about. The Frost clans are militant, and they've been waiting for a chance at Hume for weeks." He waited for the man to reply, but the stricken look on the man's face was a pretty good indication that no reply would be coming any time soon. Tyrael moved back to Jaymond's side and knelt, placing a hand on the exhausted man's shoulder, "How are you feeling?"

"Been better," Jaymond admitted, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Been thinkin' I was a little optimistic before, with the whole showin' Hume what's what."

"You grew a giant tree in the middle of their city hall, Jay. I think that's enough for now." Tyrael stood back up, turning his attention to the other man, "Stay with him."

"What? What about you? Where are you going?"

Tyrael glanced down the hall, a small frown appearing on his face, "The council hall. If Trompart's still in the city, which I doubt, that's where he'll be."

"And if he's not?"

"There's a chance that he and the other councillors left without taking any of their documents with them." Tyrael shook his head at Jaymond's mute attempt to regain his feet, and kept the man down with a hand to his shoulder, "Those documents could be valuable. We need to get them and find out what they're planning now, rather than wait and be taken off guard later."

"You don't have any armor. Or even a weapon."

Tyrael was already moving down the hall, though he turned to call back, "The whole city's under siege. I'm sure I can find one on the way."

The man watched him go with disbelief, but turned to Jaymond with a questioning look as the Cetra started chuckling, "Think that's funny? He's probably going to get himself killed."

"Probably." Jaymond hitched his back a little higher on the wall, trying to find some small measure of comfort until the chocobo came back to get them out, "But somehow, I doubt it. Not that one. Not yet."

/

To all the people of Hume but the man standing in the bay window of the council chamber, the city's ambitions were crumbling to dust. The councillors had already been evacuated, Trompart among them, and despite the temporary siege of the city all would soon be righted and as it should be. As he watched the Cetra swarming the streets, darkening the city with their war birds and the blood of innocent humans, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He hadn't thought the Cetra bloodthirsty enough to slay the blameless, and it had been his idea to hold the festival of knowledge while amassing the army needed to fight the Cetra on equal strength. It was a disastrous miscalculation, but one that he could still turn to his advantage, and he would take the reasoning behind making it to his grave.

Behind him, the last of the small group of Cetra who'd thought to barge into the council chamber gave her final choke of air before expiring, the deep red of her blood soaking into the silver of her hair. That he'd killed a woman was of little concern to him; if she was prepared to fight, she should have been equally prepared to die. His sword hung at his side, held loosely in his grip as he considered the pandemonium going on outside the window. Every inhale he took caused a bead of blood to well at the sword's tip, and every exhale sent it to the floor to join the ones that went before it.

The left side of the room was largely crumbled to chunks of rock and mortar, thanks to the continuing growth of the tree summoned from below, and every now and again the building shook as the tree continued to seek sunlight. Out of curiosity he'd peered down its side to the dungeon and seen the glow of the lifestream as it continued to feed the plant, and even as he'd looked a few minute tendrils had begun to snake up the rough bark, no doubt coming to claim the dead. There was now a large gash in the tree from where he'd vented his anger, but it was already six feet higher than when he'd made it and rapidly healing over.

At the sound of running footsteps in the hallway his grip tightened on the gore-drenched weapon, but he didn't turn around. The window showed him enough of a reflection for him to see the final Cetra added to Trompart's dungeon appear in the doorway, and the scowl on his face changed into a darkly amused smirk, "Aren't you supposed to be dead right now, Tyrael?"

From where he stood in the doorway, Tyrael subconsciously shifted into a more balanced stance. The sword he carried wasn't his own, and as he readjusted his grip on it for the fourth time he was highly aware of that fact. He took in the slain Cetra, not failing to notice that the helmet of each one had been meticulously removed and placed to the side. The relief that he didn't know any of them was closely followed by guilt for feeling that way, and his full attention went back to the man at the window, "Who are you?"

"Meeting questions with questions never gives answers. I asked you a question." He turned to face Tyrael, his mouth still fixed in a smirk but darkness in his eyes, "Why aren't you dead?"

"Perk of the lifestream." The building gave another violent shake as the tree surged upwards, but Tyrael's eyes remained locked with the man's, and in that instant he saw unchecked rage mix with the darkness. Then it was gone, submerged behind the deep green irises, and with it went any trace of a smile from the man's face.

"The lifestream. A truly fascinating source of power." With his free hand, the man reached into a pocket in his cloak and withdrew a small vial filled with metallic dust, studying it with a mixture of distaste and satisfaction, "But it's not the only power available. Not anymore."

"Is that…?" Tyrael remembered the enthusiasm with which Osrik had begun to tell him about the space dust exhibit, and was suddenly wishing he'd taken the time to visit it after all. Even as the memory triggered inside his head, the man removed the stopper and tipped the contents of the vial down his throat.

Given his recent experience with the Materia, Tyrael half-expected a flash of magic or some other indication of what the dust had done. The only outward change to the man, however, was the slight glow that now came from his eyes, "Let's test the power of the lifestream, Tyrael. Against the power of the stars."

Tyrael braced for the attack, but when it came the speed and force of it sent a jolt up his arm as the ring of steel sounded in the air. He'd barely seen the man start moving, and the second blow followed swiftly on the heels of the first. It was all he could do to bring his sword up in time to parry, and he gritted his teeth as the man leaned his weight into the deadlock. How a simple dust from space had made the man this much faster and stronger, he had no idea, but one of his knees was starting to shake from the pressure. They were fighting close to one of the Cetra bodies, and from the wetness pressing against one foot it was clear he was half-standing in blood. The man gave another shove, and Tyrael's knee buckled. When it hit the floor he struggled to keep his balance. His sword let out a metallic screech as the edge of the man's blade sheared along it, an ear-numbing testament as to who held the superior weapon.

With a two-handed grip on the hilt, Tyrael twisted his sword and wrenched. The motion disengaged him from his opponent and caused the man to take several staggered steps backwards, at the cost of disarming Tyrael completely. He let the sword fly where it would, lunging instead for the sword of the nearby Cetra. The new sword was much lighter, and he scarcely had a hold of it before twisting his upper body and swinging it in a horizontal arch. Sure enough, it deflected the incoming sword with a sharp ring and several sparks.

Tyrael leapt away from the man and clear of the blood, digging the pads of his feet into the brick in an attempt to wipe them dry as he did so. He wasn't used to fighting someone who engaged so relentlessly; most fighters tended to circle while looking for openings and assessing potential weaknesses. This man seemed to assess _while attacking_, giving Tyrael no chance to go on the offensive. Every movement of Tyrael's was a block or a dodge, reactions to the unending strikes whistling through the air. His earlier wound was gone, healed by the Materia, but he still felt the loss of blood keenly; much sooner than it normally would, the fatigue began to settle in.

Slowly, but with a surety that was unavoidable, Tyrael could feel himself being driven toward the pool of blood. Each blow shook his arms to the shoulders, and he knew that if he slipped this time he wouldn't get up again. He never broke contact with the strange man's eyes, despite the unsettling glow emanating from them; every twitch of the pupil was a tell, and missing a single one would throw him out of step with the brutal rhythm the man set.

All at once, the fight was over as abruptly as it had begun. The man threw all his weight into shoving Tyrael backwards, and backpedalled away from the immediate retaliation range. Tyrael staggered, his sword flitting through the air in a desperate attempt to reengage at whatever angle his opponent attacked, but the man was moving towards a side exit with as much speed as he'd brought to bear against Tyrael. He paused in the doorway to send the barest of glances backwards, a silent promise to Tyrael that their fight would continue at another time, and then he was gone.

Still dazed as to what had happened, it took Tyrael several long seconds to realize the heavy beats of his heart were synchronized to the arrival of multiple hobnailed boots, and he turned to see a group of Frost clan warriors marching into the room, fury in their eyes at the sight of their slain kin. He stepped aside to let them pass, but it was another minute before the rush from fighting left him, and only then did he see Osrik and Lotsu waiting just inside the entrance. Once noticed, they moved to his side, and Lotsu placed a concerned hand on his shoulder, "Tyrael, this blood…"

"Did you see him?" Tyrael demanded, unable to control the grating edge in his voice or the sharpness in his eyes. Ignoring the surprised jerk Lotsu gave, he turned his attention to Osrik, "Well?"

"I saw him." Osrik's voice was grim as he watched the side door, "I don't think I've ever seen a man move that fast. Didn't think it was possible." Something inside him finally admitted that the man wouldn't be coming back, and he sent Tyrael a proud smile accompanied by a strong thump to the back, "You were holding your own though. He'd have poked a hole in me faster than a snap of the fingers."

Tyrael shook his head, "I was on the defensive the whole time, Osrik, and getting worse by the minute. Not _once_ did I lead a strike. I…"

His anger took a pause as he realized that Lotsu was running her hands over his chest and sides. She glanced up at him with a no-nonsense expression, "You happen to be covered in blood, Tyrael. I'm seeing how much of it is actually yours."

"None of it." He stepped away from her, unable to help the slight wobble in his step as he did so. His unstable balance did nothing to convince her, and he pressed, "I mean it. All my blood is either in me or in the dungeon. Although most of it's in the dungeon, now that I think about it."

His head was starting to feel more than a little fuzzy, and now that the adrenaline provided by first escaping the dungeon and then fighting the mystery man was wearing off, he was having a very hard time convincing his muscles to keep him upright. He was somewhat conscious of someone taking his arm and wrapping it around their neck, and from the height he guessed it was Osrik. The edges of his vision had gained a definite blur to them, but by using Osrik as a support he was able to stay conscious as they left the council chamber and moved back into the daylight.

/

_The asteroid continued ever onward, feeling the pull of the planet's gravity even at this distance. Deep within the asteroid, the being could feel something else; tiny pinpricks of familiarity dotted the surface of the planet, and even as more attention was paid to the infinitesimal specks one burned brighter than the rest. It was an intriguing thought, that the primitive things on the planet were somehow forming connections to the being, and the being reached out with a tendril of power to see if those connections might be strengthened from afar. _

_Almost instantly the being recoiled, stung quickly and viciously by the force already living beneath the planet's surface. An instant later the being felt a slow, throbbing rage begin to build within. To drift for aeons only to meet with resistance was intolerable; the thing within the planet needed to die for its resistance, _would_ die for it, and once it was crushed into nothing the planet's inhabitants would be ready to receive their new deity. _


End file.
